He tried to raise his umbrella but had no luck; it banged against his leg as he began to walk faster, hustling into the wind, his aunt’s home a few blocks away. Old Claude Bichain, the family servant, opened a side door; he had been watching for Orville, his bearded face close to a window. Orville, glancing at the rambling breaktimber house, saw his face and, cane-like, lifted his umbrella. "My, you’re soaked! Mon dieu, Orville, come in..." "I shouldn’t have tried ... but it’s not far to the cemetery," Orville said, and handed Claude his umbrella and hat, shedding his coat in the doorway. "I came in the back way ... the front lawn’s flooded." "Yes, it’s a heavy rain. The gutters are poor ... we haven’t been able to find anyone to repair them. Come with me," Claude suggested. "I have a fire in the kitchen." Orville followed him through the butler’s pantry, perturbed by the house, somehow stiff, apart, unfriendly. The weather, no doubt. "Change here ... it’s the warmest place. I’ll bring your clothes, the things that you left here ... we’ve kept them for you." "Claude, how has life been? "Ah, well enough, I guess ... well enough." "You haven’t gotten married again?" "At my age!" Orville enjoyed his laughter, the restrained laughter of old age. "And you?" "Me ... I’m glad to be here. Seven years since I was here ... seven or eight." Bichain nodded, remembering. "And the war?" he asked, unsure of himself, trying to interpret Orville’s sad face. "It goes on and on ... I sometimes..." but he stopped. "I’m glad you made it ... your bus was late, but buses are always late now ... let me get your clothes ... I put some pots of water on the stove ... you see the boiler isn’t working for the bathtub." He found it hard to speak: he was troubled by Orville’s greasy mechanic’s clothes, his bearded face, his staring eyes, grim mouth. Orville found it comfortable washing himself by the cast iron stove--polished as always. Copper pots and copper spoons decorated a wall. The fire was crackling in the stove; there was plenty of hot water, Claude had stacked several towels on a chair. Cakes of soap. The rain guttered down the windows. Orville stood on a braided rug, probably braided by Annette long ago. He appreciated Claude, so thoughtful, respectful: his beard was longer and whiter. Annette was in the village but what had delayed the Rondes? Where was Jeannette? On duty at the hospital, no doubt. He wondered whether the hospital was overrun with wounded. It was a long way in space and time, from Africa to London, to Ermenonville’s kitchen: that bombed railway station, that taxi ride through bombed streets, past the British Museum spewing books and walls, blocking the street, one siren triggering another until the city howled like dying children. It had taken some doing to locate Jeannette Hitchcock, at the Dalton Street Red Cross station.