It takes a while for one tipsy knight and two attentive young hangers-on to make it up the stairs in anything like order. But they manage it eventually, and Courfeyrac goes in ahead of the others to switch on the light and turn down the covers, mussed though they already are.

The day is fine, the sun is shining on the lake, the grass is thick and soft. Courfeyrac is stretched out on the lawn, his sleeves rolled up and one arm above his head, drowsing contentedly among the dandelions.

Along about six o'clock there is a knock at Molly's door; this proves to be a complacent-looking Sagramore, accompanied by a tall, curvy, auburn-haired girl with a peculiarly familiar giggle, wearing one of Courfeyrac's shirts.

Courfeyrac lets himself quietly out of Sagramore's room. He's looking a little unwontedly somber, and a little frayed round the edges.

Courfeyrac, for want of more useful occupation, is skipping stones on the lake. He's in his shirtsleeves, the breeze ruffling his auburn hair, and the whole tableau is quite boyishly fetching, but for God's sake don't tell him that.