"You’ll have to wait ... I’ll call you back, M. Bichain. Are you at the residence?" Orville waited on the tapestry upholstered telephone chair; listening to the rain his mood began to adjust: drops were racing down the French doors: Claude was switching on lamps, tending a fire in one of the fireplaces. Firelight blurred the walls. It was an elegant room. 1788, he recalled. The Rondes had purchased the property from some member of their family. He couldn’t remember who the builder was. Both fireplaces were constructed of yellow glazed brick, their white mantels rested on rococo Caen stone pillars. The furniture, of several periods, blended well, touches of ormolu, marquetry, rosewood, mahogany. The phone jangled. "Hello ... hello ... is this M. Bichain? This is Jeannette Hitchcock." "Hi, Jean?" Orville had to bring himself round suddenly, snap into the present. "Hi, darling!" "Orv, Orv ... oh, it’s you. How’s everything?" "Fine. And you?" "Fine ... Orv, you’re here, you’re safe!" "When am I going to see you?" he asked, excited now, wanting to see her at once. "Can I see you tonight?" "Not tonight, darling." Her voice trembled. "Can’t be tonight. I’m on emergency shift. Surgery. Maybe for three hours ... a bad case. I don’t want to see you when I’m tired. We’ve waited ... I can’t spoil it." "When?" he asked. "Tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you anywhere you say. How about that, Orv?" "Can a hospital car bring you here?" "But I don’t want to be with your family. Not now. When did you get here?" "On a late bus ... I have gotten into some clothes ... get a lot of rest, turn in early, if you can. I’ll come in the morning." He wanted to say it’s marvelous, hearing your voice, being in Ermenonville; she was already saying good night, and he heard himself saying good night with woodenness; then the phone went dead in his hand--the crude, dumb thing. Hardly had he placed the receiver on its hook when the phone rang. Picking it up indifferently, he said: "Hello." "Orville, it’s you! How nice. Oh, Orville, I’m so glad you are home. When did you get home? I’ve been trying to get you, but this wretched phone..." "Hi, Aunt Therèse! I got here an hour or so ago. You sound far off or the connection’s bad. Where are you?" He dropped into her kind of French, the kind she had taught him, Ermenonville’s patois. "I’m out in the country about ten or twelve miles, at a horrible, dirty farm. Our car has broken down ... I’m afraid I won’t get back till late. Maybe not till tomorrow. Lena and I are here--we’re so disappointed not to be home ... to welcome you. Tell Annette to fix a supper. Claude will look after you..." Therèse’s effusiveness annoyed him but he sent his love to Lena and assured them that everything was all right.