The newcomer looks familiar, but not overly so. Wistfully, Claudius thinks the gold of his hair resembles Galahad's -- with warmer tones more like the sun, than like Galahad's pale moon-brightness. This unfortunate love affair, Claudius thinks, really does threaten to turn him into a poet. But the longer he lingers on melancholy lines, the more likely he'll be to do something self-destructive and foolish. Claudius needs the company.

And so he approaches the stranger¹. "Hello, there," he says, summoning up a casual smile. "I don't believe we've meet. I'm Claudius."

¹ As the typist pulls back from the dramatic irony lever.