"I'll grant that's possible," Arthur says, mock-thoughtfully, "though calling it paranoia is a stretch when they really have been out to get us."

Is joke.

Arthur shrugs off whatever cute old-man-festive cardigan the wardrobe provided today, and starts to pull unhurriedly at the buttons of his shirt, one-handed so that he can continue to trace the lines and muscles of Crichton's back. So that's a yes on the robe and presumably also on the reading. But he also looks amused: "What, do you carry a copy around in your pocket?"