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.

Courfeyrac is sprawled on Sagramore's bed in shirt and pants, reading in the slanting afternoon light from the windows. Anyone who likes to bother him -- anyone with free access to Sagramore's room, that is, which narrows it down ever so much -- would no doubt be welcome.

( continued)

Fortunately this is not, to Courfeyrac, as unsettling as it might be to a man from another time period, but certainly it's upsetting. He sits on the edge of the bed and holds Sagramore tightly.

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 happens to be on his way upstairs -- alone, notably -- his hands tucked in his pockets, with an abstracted air.

There's a fire in the fireplace, and Courfeyrac is sprawled on the floor in front of it like the overgrown kitten he is, head pillowed in his arms, entirely in everyone's way.