" ... Lena’s fine ... we got awfully wet because we had the top folded down, and we couldn’t get it raised again. Such a muddy road. And then our engine had to act up. Have you seen Jeannette? Have you phoned her?" She was sputtering. Orville remembered her volubility; she went on chatting about nothing, Orville nodding, smiling. "Their car broke down ... they won’t be back until late or tomorrow," he explained to Claude, who was offering a pack of cigarettes. "They’re at Placiers." Bichain nodded. "Anything you want?" "No ... I’ll let Annette know." Orville walked about the elegant room. Yes, it had been seven years since his last visit: he and his mother had stayed several weeks during that summer. During those seven years he had ample time to finish high school, enroll at Cornell, make the crew, go to war! In front of the alabaster bust of Chopin he shoved his hands into his pockets. Chopin’s face seemed more poetical than he remembered it. The man’s eyes stared absently into his eyes. The lips had their absinthe smile. No, the furniture had not been changed; of course the settees, sofa and chairs had been reupholstered with the identical pattern of pomegranate flowers: that was Therèse’s way. The woodwork had been dusted and polished two thousand times and Claude had waxed the parquet--over and over. Parchment lamp shades seemed to be new. He bent over a cloisonné vase: its birds and flowers were in the same Kyoto greenery. He glanced up: ah, it was there, the gold and silver and green fresco of oak and laurel leaves, twined in their ceiling wreath. Dark red curtains ... Tired, he dumped himself on a settee, his thoughts reverting to his trip, a sick and quarrelsome woman, the SS troopers playing poker, a boy begging for food ... a half hour slipped away. He absorbed the quiet. Had the rain stopped? He hoped so. The fires in the twin fireplaces spread their warmth. Maybe the war was ending ... maybe it would end while he was home; certainly it was the right place. Yet assurances were missing. Shall I go upstairs, to my room? He closed his eyes as he sensed the firelight. Claude woke him to say that supper was ready. Colonel Ronde’s meticulous oil portrait dominated the wall alongside the dining table: the gold fame was heavy and ornate: the Colonel was wearing his 1918 captain’s uniform, a trench helmet and a pistol, and a pair of grey gloves lay on a table beside him: he appeared to be a reticent, egocentric, stupid man. Orville remembered how dictatorial he had been: you kids get out of the greenhouse ... you kids are not to ride your bicycles through the garden ... you kids must come to dinner punctually ... Orville was relieved that the old boy was not around: the portrait’s frame was tarnishing: pigment was flaking: the Ermenonville forest background was fading: good.