Ford was gratified to hear she was willing to accept his help, because he certainly had done enough harm in this interaction so far and was eager for a chance to redeem himself. He took a second to recall where he'd last put his wand (sending a short prayer of thanks to any higher powers that existed that he'd had the forethought to put it anywhere at all, rather than dropping it when the gnome had landed on his chest) and then dropped to a knee in front of her, so that he could see what he was doing with her skirts. It occurred to him as his knee touched the grass that if anyone passed by he might look like he was doing something else down here, particularly with her outfit in a state of disrepair, and he at first interpreted Barnaby's heavy sigh to be in response to his failure to consider how this looked. But what alternative did he have? They had to get her skirts fixed before she could do anything, and he had to see what he was about — couldn't Barnaby stand watch for them, or something? What was he doing to be useful?

Then Ford noticed the blood, and a small degree of color drained from his face (which had the effect of only reducing it to a less tomatoish shade of red, as he couldn't help but blush fiercely as he'd considered how being on his knees in front of her torn skirts would look to passersby). "Do you need to sit down?" he asked, which was a stupid question since there was nothing nearby to sit on, and she likely wasn't keen to put herself back in public view in order to limp over to the nearest bench.

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