He remained outside for a few more seconds; it was against his best judgement, should he step in, but then Guy's words—how every home was different, but that does not mean that being different is necessarily bad—were what finally tugged him inside. Perhaps Eponine was mimicking the social conventions of the women who have come from a later time than them, those modern women tributes? She was here before him, after all, she had more time to assimilate these customs into her manners.

Tentatively, he took a step inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click but taking care to keep it unlocked. His striding was slow, almost cautious, and when he took his seat it was at the very edge of her bed, at a respectable distance away from her.

He stared at his hands that he wrung together. She was a friend, he told himself, and it was his duty to consult her with what she wished to ask. "What might it be?"