Tristan, in a panic, vacillates between the jovial reflection and the seriousness this offer demands. Had Constance drawn a sword he would feel less ambushed. Why all these questions, today, that he is so ill prepared to handle? 

"Normally I would ask you be happy, be free of doubt, but it looks like I have no need to ask." Tristan is left, then, with a much more private question. "If we are speaking in the strictest of confidences - In your personal judgement, do you think I should court Sir Mort, or Sir Liana?"

Tristan stands firm, and holds a steady gaze. This should not be mistaken for unabashed confidence - it's the aspect of the fawn that's heard the snapping twig, but has not yet made the commitment to bolt. Gauging its ambusher.