Susan studies the necklace for a long few moments, turning it over in her hands, holding it up and judging its length and its suitability for most of her clothes. It's lovely, precisely the style she prefers, and she's tremendously touched.

Then she decides, to Hell with the food between them. She moves the picnic basket out of the way, setting her cheese-and-bread sandwich on its lid and propping the open bottle of wine carefully against it, and then climbs into Lancelot's lap, wrapping arms and legs alike around him, drawing him in for a deep, delighted kiss. "Go on then," she says, when she finally breaks it, pressing the necklace into his hand. "Put it on me."