Lancelot freezes, for half a breath, and then looks at her directly.

Susan is so beautiful. She means what she says. She is always honest. In so many ways, she is like enough to himself to really understand him.

She believes this to be true.

Lancelot shakes his head a little. He isn't disagreeing, exactly, but neither can he say he knows this. (It has been, what? A year perhaps? A blink. There is plenty of time for things to turn sour.)