Small talk was small talk, and Hephaestus never put much worth in it. He expressed himself through things he could see and touch rather than what he could hear. Words, intangible things, rarely merited heavy consideration.
Not that Jo knew. Nor could she realize what kind of effect her question had on him. The smith's back went tense for a fraction of a second, a dark look passing over the face he'd turned away to face the fire.
Mortals didn't trivialize the gods' gifts so. They did not assign any worth to them other than "priceless". They took what the gods gave them and were glad for it.
The moment passed, and Hephaestus's broad shoulders relaxed. When he turned to glance back at Jo, it was with a smile more tired than amused. "You don't pay for gifts. Bad form."
Looking at her -- and he was looking, carefully, with an artist's eye which catalogued all the details -- it took effort to remind himself that this was not Greece. This was not Olympus. She was being cynical, not spiteful. The world had moved on.