He turns, pausing to give the other man an exasperated look when he sees their attire. Does Hythlodaeus intend to lounge about with only that towel? Sighing, he turns back and pours out some hot water into a mug, the string of the little tea bag inside wound about the handle to stop it slipping in. A modern convenience he has grown used to.

He sets this mug on the table and falls into the opposite seat, gesturing. "Your tea," he drawls.