Laertes has the distinct sense that Lancelot is ribbing him, but he lets it be; he hauls Lancelot in by the front of his shirt for a swift, declarative kiss. "Then let me take the soup off of the fire, that it should 'scape burning," he says, and reaches for what seems to be a hook from a fireplace poker set to lift the soup pan by its handle. He sets it gently down on a nearby table and puts the lid on it, then tucks the poker against the oven again. "There. Race thee to the water?"