At the mere mention of soup, Tristran's stomache flips in a sort of agitated glee, as though to kick his brain into 'get-me-food' gear.

Except his head isn't cooperating at the moment, still getting over the previous dizzy spell.

"Perhaps you can..." He stops short, mumbling, "...never mind." She can, what? Help him to the bar with her broken leg? What sort of ignorant dunce was he anyway, to make an injured lady do something like that?

He groans, leaning back once more and collapses against the pillows, still clutching at his head. "This isn't working at all."