Claudius comes to dinner neatly-dressed, but that's no surprise -- he couldn't leave his room without his tie precise and correct, his sleeves gartered for the length of his jacket, and even then he'll unbutton and readjust his cuffs when they're perfectly straight but not straight enough. He had a thought of bringing flowers, but then the sight of red columbines crushed his heart and he couldn't breathe.

But he's too mannerly to let himself be waylaid by personal grief from an appointed dinner. Laertes won't be impressed by manners, but (Claudius thinks) there's nothing more miserable than waiting for an assignation that won't come. Perhaps they can still talk about God. Perhaps Laertes will have more pleasant blasphemies. It would be a balm to blame God and not himself for his miseries, but Claudius doubts Laertes will spare any blame owed to him.

He sighs, after knocking on Laertes's door, and redoes his cuffs once more.