"Of course it wasn't you," he says irritably, and gives Q a(n admittedly perfunctory) swat right on his bald spots. "That's for not trusting me." He stoops carefully to retrieve the books. "Now, come inside." He's aware that he's pre-empting whatever other plans Q might have made, and utterly callous to the fact. Aside from his own inclinations (he recalls with an internal sigh), Q always did respond willingly to the imperious. "I'm damned if I'll make mawkish street theatre for the gawkers. Besides," he adds, answering the question with a little sour face, "as you're aware, one must allow oneself time to recover from snakebite."