"Tis." She said, taking the bottle back and looking at the label. It's Rye whisky, to match the somber tone of the book he's been reading. It's a dry drink, spicy, hard and probably not at all smooth to those who aren't practiced as drinking it.
These types of questions. He's never sure he knows exactly how to answer. Is she being polite, expecting him to dodge the truth and say a simple and curt "fine" or does she really expect him to open up.
It's a full ten, awkward seconds as he considers what she wants to hear, "Fine." he hopes he chose wisely and figures that if she wants more then the conversation will open that way. He pours more rye down his throat and passes the drink back over if she wants another gander at it.
"'ave ye come special for me or are ye makin' the first lady rounds?"