Ned, too, feels slightly at a loss. He follows Ginsberg in, shuts the door behind them, hangs up his wet things as well. Now that they're actually here, actually in private, it all seems so much more terribly real. Without showing much outward sign of it, Ned can feel his heart starting to go a bit faster, and there's a nervous quality to his movements

Digby, he sees, is already making friends with his usual canine ease, panting with happiness at the attention, his tail. Ned, meanwhile, ducks quickly into the kitchen, comes back with two hand towels, handing one to Ginsberg.

"For your hair," he says, rather unnecessarily, since he's using the other to soak up some of the excess water from his own hair. He leans his hip against the wall as he does it, feeling unsteady on his feet. "I think this is the bit where, if I were cleverer, I'd come up with some smooth line about getting you out of your wet clothes before you catch a cold." Ned says it conversationally, but there's no masking the hint of nervousness behind the humor.