"You can’t see Lieutenant Dennison ... you cannot see him now. I have been requested to inform anyone who comes." "Is his condition very grave?" "Yes ... If you care to wait, there’s our little chapel." She pointed down the hall. "There are magazines on the bench." She pointed again. "I can’t read anything ... I can’t ... you see he’s..." The sad little face regarded a sadder face. Jean left her overnight bag and went outside and stood a while on the steps, the rain a benison: at a nearby baker she bought rolls and drank coffee at the only table in the chilly entry. The china cup warmed her hands: she refused to look ahead: it was something to have arrived at the town, to be close to Orville: a girl of seven or eight asked Jean for a roll or piece of bread: the rain had beaten the already beaten clothes of the child: Jean bought her bread and hot chocolate and they sat at the table together, silent: back at the hospital, a nurse admitted Jean into Orville’s room: she saw, at once, that his arm had been amputated. He was unconscious. Hiding in the little chapel she began to sob, handkerchief stuffed over her mouth. There was hardly any light in the room. A bouquet of bedraggled flowers leaned against the base of a plaster statuette of the Virgin. Alone in the chapel, sitting at the end of a pew, Jean cried until there were no more tears. No bomb, exploding during the London blitz, had left her like this: Orville, without his arm, alone: her love had not been able to sustain him: what promises could she offer? She had to wait until mid-afternoon to see him: entering his room warily, afraid, she noticed that the window curtains were nearly closed: his face was in a deep shadow, his head deep in his pillow--a stranger’s face. Bearded. "Darling," she whispered. "Orv ... darling ... I’m here ... darling ... it’s me..." "Jean," he responded. "Sister Blanche said that you had come ... I was waiting..." His voice trailed off. She kissed his cheek, stroked his forehead, puzzled by the head bandages; she hoped she was going to react sanely. "I’m going to be sick," he said, in a faint voice. "I’ll help you," she said, and picked up his kidney-shaped pan. "Now," she exclaimed professionally. "See, I’m here to take care of you. See!" "It was nothing," he said, breathing jerkily. "Nothing ... if nothing came up, I guess I’ve cleaned house." "Of course you have," she said. "Ah!" "Is your pain severe?" "Not now ... not bad." "Can I stay? ... I won’t stay long. Shall I talk a little? You just lie there and listen, huh? How about that?" In spite of his pain and uneasiness, in spite of the darkened room, he was aware of her beauty, beauty of now and Ermenonville: there was serenity in her voice: he thought: if I could raise my head a bit I could see her better, all of her. He moved and pain got him; her voice went out, her face simply wandered off somewhere, leaving a blouse and skirt, an outstretched hand. "Jeannette..."