It looks like her brother's rooms -- that's the thought that nearly makes Ophelia weep. Not like his rooms at home, where every imperfection had to be tidied away for inspection. If their father spotted one thing out of place, it would lead to interminable lecture about ordered homes and ordered minds ... but this disorder seems truer to the Laertes she knows, his competing interests and passions and whole-hearted devotion to any subject of study that caught him at the time. And among the detritus of living, she sees all the little signs of family life. She didn't realize, until now, how many of those signs Laertes left, by always leaving one thing about place. She didn't realize how much he'd taken with him, when he went to France.

She misses him. But all she manages to say is, "It's beautiful, sir."