He had found himself face to face with the coarse surface of the hobbit's doormat, all the suffocating weight of Bombur bearing down upon him. It had been unbecoming; it had been humiliating, but his own wounded pride was now being nursed by a single glance at the Halfling before him.
Simple white shirt and suspenders; brown fingers that seemed to wring one another of their own accord; and stuttering lips gushing forth apology after apology. Pathetic.
"Pray, don't mention it," he finally grunted, glancing all the while toward Gandalf with eyes that he hoped clearly inquired:
Is this your burglar?