Bossuet snickers, in the middle of washing his face, which results in water up his nose and extensive spluttering.

"--Ask him--" cough "--ask him what he does for a living, some day. If he answers anything other than 'sit on a mock-up throne in very tight trousers to make money off humans' fantasies of domination and abasement,' he's lying." At least, that was what Bossuet understood from the conversation.

He emerges from the bathroom, toweling off his face, more or less clean. "I don't deny that the trousers are effective, mind. What's his objection to Romantics?" Bossuet can think of several valid ones, but he's curious.