Laertes does the same, shimmying into his jeans and his shirt and hissing in distaste at how they cling to his wet body. He doesn't have time for his socks or boots, so he just gathers them up and stumbles after Sagramore across the grass. There's a thrill to being so completely ignored--to having his obedience assumed without question, to setting aside his worries and wants and just doing.