Susan squints at Lancelot for a moment, searching for some catch. He really is unlike so many of the men she's known before - thoughtful and attentive, curious and kind, silly (though, she suspects, not always on purpose) and profoundly capable. A dear friend. Perhaps that's why she likes him so well, and so quickly. She doesn't bother trying to explain how whatever it is going on between her and Janet feels different from whatever it is going on between her and Lancelot.

She can't find a catch, and her heart clenches again as she relaxes minutely against him. "That's all," she says.