"So ... soup de jour, beef, potatoes, a vegetable." "Chablis?" "Yes." The farmers settled down noisily to their cards and beer; when Orville finished his meal he felt locked in himself; the fire was dying down; the place had lost its welcome; he talked with the girl as she refilled his glass: he could not return home, he talked about E, about farmers he had known: the girl was about twenty, twenty-two, plain, blonde, her hair in a braided loop on top of her head. Two of her front teeth were missing. But she had a neat span around her waist and nice legs: she was a woman to sleep with. "Pastry?" she asked. "Later," he said, aware of how soon he would be trapped in the war, a low-flying plane part of that realization. Later ... She waited on the farmers; he had pastry and coffee and drowsed by the sleepy fire; presently, with a scraping of shoes and chairs, the farmers left; a lone customer remained. A man who had the appearance of a doctor, ate at a small table, spooning a bowl of soup, the steam fogging his steel-rimmed glasses; the dog lay beside him as if they were old friends. When Orville stopped at the cash register he counted clumsily, thinking in terms of dollars: he was pleased, as he fumbled with the bills, that Claude had provided him with so much. The waitress noticed his crammed billfold, cupped her chin in one hand, and smiled as if the francs had appreciative eyes. "Do you have a room?" "For tonight?" "Yes, tonight." "I think so ... just a moment, I’ll make sure." She spoke to someone at the rear, someone in the kitchen, and bounced back, and grinned a soft, calculating grin. "There’s one," she said. "I’ll show you. Come." And she kicked the dog as she walked away from the register. Orville followed her through a narrow hall. Walls and doors were wood--all painted grey. "It’s on the top floor. I guess you don’t mind." "I don’t mind," he said. As she climbed a second flight he admired her legs, no rustic hair, smooth; her loose shoes sucked at her heels, making a pleasant sound. They climbed another flight. "Ssss ... it’s quite a way," she said, puffing a little. "Here ... here’s the room." Jiggling her keys she opened the door: messy luggage cluttered a corner, the bed was unmade, its sheets and cover scrambled. Pointing to the luggage, she said: "The room belongs to a teacher, but he’s gone for several days. I’ll make up the bed, fix the room, clean it ... I was supposed to have it ready. Shall I fix it for you? It’s twenty francs." Rain had stained ceiling and walls. The floor was warped and window frames were warped. The ceiling seemed to dip toward the two windows. Someone had soiled the bedside rug. Orville disliked the room, hated himself. "Fix it," he ordered. Perched on a chair, he watched her remove the luggage and change the sheets. She was silent, quick motioned, angry at this late hour job; she was scheming how she could latch onto some of his money by sleeping with him.