Nightingale isn't really a dog person, truth be told. Not that he disapproves of them, of course. But they have their job and he has his own and the two really don't cross paths all that often. He wonders at her presence in the cafe. Perhaps she's a therapy dog? They have those these days, don't they? Perhaps the man needs her for some reason, although glancing at her and at the man addressing him, he doubts that's the case. Perhaps she's here for some other reason, then. He glances surreptitiously between the man and the dog, attempting to assess the pair of them without obviously doing so. But Lancelot might be able to recognize a copper's eye for what it is.

"It's just as well," Nightingale replies lightly. "The less interested she is in the bag, the less likely the bag is to bite back." Is he being honest here? Who knows. He's certainly not giving anything away.