Orville fiddled with the table silver, idly aware of the monogram, the crystal candleholders, the cut glass sugar creamer: three days ago, less than seventy-two hours ago, it had been hell itself at the front: fooling with his knife, eyeing its ornate handle, he wondered where it had been crafted; he sampled the entrée, glad that Annette was putting herself out to please him. When will I be eating alone like this, in such middleclass pomp! Annette served roast duck, stuffed artichoke, creamed parsnips, and buttered carrots. Finger rolls were a specialty of hers. He recognized the dry local wine ... he imagined, as he tasted it, the wines, brandies, liquors inside that inlaid buffet ... Therèse would soon be insisting. He would come across some favorites. The kitchen door widened a crack. "Everything all right?" Annette asked, hands pouching her apron, smiling attentively. "Just great!" Orville said. "It’s a treat, having you and Claude look after me ... like old times. Where’s the Colonel these days?" "He’s in Marseilles." "Good ... then he’s not caught in the thick of it." "But he’s, ah, on duty ... he’s ... well, you know how it is." The door shut but not before he realized that Annette could lose twenty pounds across her stomach and another five through her breasts. Obviously, she knew how to provision her Ermenonville larder. The dining room was a cluttered place: it reflected neglect or unconcern: unmatched chairs rectangled an ormolu table of cherry, the antique silver service on the Louis buffet represented several periods: the flowered wallpaper and a bevy of melancholy still lifes in oil were unharmonious. Orville could not remember the room as it had been years ago but felt it was quite different. He heard Jean’s voice. "What a surprise!" "Hi, darling...." Jumping up, he buried his face in her neck; he kissed her passionately; she seemed to taste of everything good, smell of many perfumes. He helped her remove her rain wet coat, slowly folding its red lining ... his eyes never leaving her. In the living room she made a little speech, ridiculous words; she hugged him and kissed him on the sofa, the fire glow on her face and hair. He fussed with her hair, smiling. "Orv ... where’s everybody?" "I thought I told you ... everybody’s in the country ... their car broke down.’" "So that’s why you were eating alone! Then they won’t be back tonight?" "Not tonight ... I guess they’ll phone again." "Swell ... gee, it’s our place." He kissed her, with a long, seductive kiss, easing her against the cushions, her breasts swelling: not since London ... tonight ... tonight ... "My god, the months!" he blurted. "I’d almost given up." "So had I!" "Your letters ... you don’t say much." "Or you ... Wasn’t that the telephone?" She was playing with the ring he had bought her in London: her fingers slid the crudely faceted amethyst round and round: her mind followed it; then she sought his mouth.