Henry is oddly delighted by Graintaire's rough edges, the crudeness, the comparative disorder of the suite. He is well aware of the reasons, however; for someone whose existence is so carefully modulated and controlled, chaos comes as a tonic.

He finds a comfortable place to sit, watching the other two with pleasure. Sartorial order has long since been put aside; his shirt is open at the collar and his shirt-sleeves rolled back, and he's trying not to be annoyed at the sand in the hems of his trousers. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Grantaire has a point.

"It has been a completely charming day," he says, "and I am sorry to see it drawing to a close."