Laertes nods. "The first time I traveled alone to France, I was seventeen or eighteen," he says quietly. "No--I must've been seventeen, because it was in summer, and my birthday is in November. I thought me that, for the first time in my life, I would be able to be mine own man. A few of my fellow-students wanted to go out for drinks and billiards, and invited me to join them, and I confess, I was eager to prove myself their equal for sport--they were a rowdy crew, but very joyous, and teased each other so readily about flirtations and who had the worst facility with Greek. And then ..." His hands falter. "And then I came to the tavern where we were to drink, and there I saw my father's retainer, sipping an ale in the corner. I turned on my heel, and spoke not three words to any of those fine young men for as long as we studied together. I knew then that there was no place I could go where my father's hand did not extend."