Lancelot considers, keeping her hand and smoothing back her hair with the other. He remembers their earlier conversation, his honesty about Arthur -- that admission that they did not have enough time, here, to come to understand one another as they should. He gives her a searching look, full of care.

After a long hesitation he says, with that very deliberate care he occasionally has, "Some here, thyself amongst them, have known me better than I know myself. Or have at least a different frame. I think thou didst understand me, when I spoke to thee of Arthur. My love for him. That, I have spoken of only to a very few, those closest to me. I also knew not how-- is't so with this, for thee?"