"Your cousin, Master Xellos? Oh, the young man who speaks little but makes up for the lack with a most expressive pout and rather, erm," - Cesare flounders - "well. Wings?" He nods vaguely; oddly bleakly, too.
Pulling apart a chestnut, he blows on it,
"Blessed are the few who sit at the table where the bread of the angels is eaten, and most unfortunate those who share the food of sheep. But since man is by nature a friend of all men, and every friend is grieved by defects found in the one he loves, they who are fed at so lofty a table are not without compassion toward those whom they see grazing about on grass and acorns in animal pastures.
You may count me among the latter, Master Xellos, with my esteemed hosts taking most charitable pity on me."