Richards took his leave, and Malachi had half a mind to follow him. His eyes followed the younger priest's departure, staring after him even once he'd disappeared from the room. Had he more confidence in Francis' ability not to stir up any more trouble, even with the barrier of language between the beggar and Chéri, he might have tried to at least make sure that Richards was alright...

...but as his gaze slid slowly back to his little collection of strays, Malachi opted against it. Best not to leave them alone.

"I asked you not to tease," he scolded, but his tone failed to convey much in the way of true frustration. Irritated as he'd gotten himself with Francis before, he found difficulty in holding anything against him, and was somewhat surprised that a man as supposedly kind as Father Richards felt differently. Francis was... a terror. True. But Malachi could understand why.

With a glance at Chéri, he waved a hand at the rest of the food laid out before them. More so than when he'd walked in, Malachi looked tired.

"Have more, Chéri," Malachi encouraged, and then in English, "both of you. Don't worry about him."