He smiles a little at her -- he loves her so. It is different, he supposes, than what he felt for Guinever or Arthur, but no less intense. His chest is full to bursting with it at the moment; her determined care, her thoughtfulness, the notebook ever in her pocket. Her willingness to hear him out.

Lancelot takes a little sip of his whiskey to try to get his mind in order, and then says, "Perhaps piece by piece."