Laertes swings open the door almost at once--when he is keeping an appointment, it takes over the whole of his day, and there is little he can do but await the hour. He grins broadly when he sees Enjolras, gesturing him in. The front room is almost surprisingly neat, given Laertes's more disordered habits of mind, with an armchair in one corner and a table with two smaller chairs at the front. There are a few books (a copy of Idées républicaines among them) scattered on the table, along with a glass pitcher full of water and strewn with sprigs of mint and slices of lemon and quince. "My dear friend, welcome. Wouldst like a drink?"