( There's a... scent to a craven, like whale fat burning. Unmistakable. Mr. Eames feels his left eye twitch at the chuckle, because only be so much indignity a man can swallow face-front, and him, Mr. Eames, is a godly person, possessed of bravery and wisdom and composure, why, look at this face —

Only, My. Eames, with a voice entirely too paternal for anyone's comfort, he knows the trouble here.

He doesn't touch the young man again, though his hand waves over his shoulder as if he might — before he reconsiders. Then: )

You... with them lasses. To make them babes. You know how they be born? Don't need... help learnin'bout that too, do ye?

( ...he'd not ask, but look at this man, he can't even weaponise a mop. )