Soft though the voice that addresses him is, Warsman still finds himself instinctively twitching a little, his head jerking as if to weave away from a left-hook-- but for all his defensive instincts the blow never comes. It's just the butler: a friendly enough man by all accounts, though he's never really found the occasion to speak to him all that much. Truthfully he's still trying to figure out where he sits in the house's admittedly unusual hierarchy. Would his hosts be insulted if they caught him speaking to servants, or is he barely one step above them himself?

Regardless, he tilts his head both to return the nod and direct what he hopes seems like a smile in Lyall's direction, the eyes of his mask softening around the edges. It's much easier to offer a response when the silence has already been broken for him.

"I think everyone has someone they like to remember on days like this." A pause. "Mr. Lyall, isn't it...?" Or is it just 'Lyall'? He doesn't want to seem rude, but...