You're underestimating what he's there to do, Barty. It's not the robes I'm worried about.

It's commentary like that. Let him relax you. You're wound tighter than Foucault's pocketwatch. Small wonder, I know, but -

Besides, it's not my award ceremony. It's Our Lord's.

You see? Darling, you don't even know which way you're pointed at present. And I can't talk to

Well. I can't stand the thought you might 'summarily execute' someone for blinking the wrong way at you. It's beyond endearing right round into disturbing.

You're going to be on a stage whether you like it or not. Let's focus on getting through it with the people none the wiser, yes?