"I need some time
Somewhat longer than this rhyme," Zecora mused, looking him over thoughtfully.
"There are two brews
You could use.
But to do their tricks
They must be mixed.
Will you stay and chat
Or must you scat?"

Optimism that he was well, in her voice and attitude. He could be better, but nothing she saw immediately worried her -- she could let him leave the tent if he truly wished, without worry.

She hoped he'd stay though.