[ He spreads his hands. ]

So it'll never work out, it seems.

[ A beat, then he drops his hands. He looks at Miles a little more steadily, now. Byerly has, it seems, regained his lost temper: that earlier nastily mocking good cheer was, in fact, By in a black rage. ]

You know what your problem is, Miles? You ask questions without even bothering to supply your poor victim with wine first. I'd put up with a lot more if you came with wine.