He goes on chatting with Mss. Blewett, the (clean) hair at the base of his neck standing up in a depressingly familiar way, and only lets his gaze slide across Sirius as she's tying the parcel of recent history up in the shop's paper and signature ribbons fussily arranged to make a loop for ease of carrying. As their eyes meet, he inclines his head slightly in, not invitation of dismissal, but acknowledgment.