Three beats. One quiet weekend.

A private dinner for entrants, jury and a small circle of guests. The Concours does not begin on the lawn. It begins at the table - with the people who held the wheel.

From morning, the field is presented. The Jury moves quietly between the cars. Conversation is permitted; applause is not. The lake turns to glass; the mountains hold their breath.

At the close of day, selected cars depart by boat. A slow return across the lake at last light - the founding image of the Concours, and the moment that gives the weekend its name.