Rosalind, as a rule, ignores other patrons of any establishment she's in. She's accustomed to some level of fame, had been accustomed to some level of fame, and it's often just easier to pretend other people aren't real. Now, though, the only real thing around her is the other person, so she cannot help but watch as the woman does a great deal of quite grousing and then spills the creamer dramatically across the floor.

Rosalind arches a brow as she considers her and then debates, briefly, if she should ignore the situation or help. Her book is terrible so, ultimately, she opts for the latter of her choices. She stands up and, in doing so, leaves a ghostly variant of herself in her wake, still seated and returned to reading.

"Damn," she says dispassionately but offers no other time or thought to the alternate her as she walks to the coffee bar to render aid. The full fat creamer is now all across the floor and Rosalind steps gingerly over it before reaching and picking up the half-cream, half-milk.

"How much?" she asks and glances down at the woman's cup of gradually cooling coffee.