The place isn't as busy as on the previous occasion; it's a quiet night. No one takes much notice of him, except a couple of men who give him the once-over and a solitary, broad-shouldered woman parked near the bar, who looks at him the way women do sometimes look at him, with a kind of wistful sympathy (he looks so young, so worn, so out of place). There are one or two convivial small groups, a couple of determined drinkers, no one resembling Mordred.