"Bend over..." "Now..." "Yes..." "Okay..." "Hmm ... more..." Silence! His hand cupped a breast; she ran fingers through his hair; shall we ever marry? In some architectural office will he bend over blueprints, and then pick up his phone and say ...? We’ll never have a house like this one--not seven bedrooms. Ours ... three bedrooms, $24,000. That would be okay. She thought of her life: her dad had been a dirt farmer plus rural teacher, he had never had much time for home; his health had failed under demanding jobs: skinny, hard featured, hard headed ... Orville must never get like that. I must get him out of the war, somehow, somehow! As they kissed, the room came back, his smiles, his hands, his love. "Another brandy?" "No." "We’ll do better tonight than we did in London." "That was awful that awful room..." "Shall we go upstairs?" "Yes." She was standing by a mantel, her hair against the intricate carvings on the Caen stone: she was taller than he thought. "When it’s eleven o’clock?" he queried. "Will you? "Don’t think about it." "There’s no taxi at that hour." "Then we’ll walk ... there’s no curfew is there?" "No." Upstairs, up the dimly lit stairs, he opened the door to his room: a fire was burning in his fireplace. "Claude made a fire," Orville said, chuckling. "How nice." She hugged her coat against her breasts as she glanced around shyly. Peering into his mirror on his chest of drawers she saw the gun rack, rifles, shotgun, fishing rods, botanical prints ... a mounted bass over his bed. "What a funny thing to make love under," she kidded. "I’ve made a real catch this time." "Oh, darling..." She touched the feather-light quilt, admiring its floral pattern: wasn’t one almost like that in a room at home? "It smells nice in here," she commented. "It’s the pine wood." Firelight followed their nakedness as they lay facing each other on the quilt; they were afraid to move: they wanted a moment of serenity before love making, to see one another: then she smothered her mouth with his and his tongue probed inside: she sensed the hardening of his belly muscles: he rolled her over completely, both of them laughing. She stroked him--cooing, pushing him away to prolong their joy. Yes, this is the place to have a woman: eyes slit, he glimpsed his rods and guns. Kneeling in front of her, he dragged her against him. They tottered to one side. They slipped from the quilt onto the floor, giggling. Her breasts rounded to his fingers: they felt cool, wonderful: she was marshmallow white. He stood up and she stood and then she jumped against him, swung her legs around him, clamped her arms about his neck. His hands cupped her feet. She kissed him, holding their kiss. To feel his strength--his arms, his belly, his chest. "No ... no ... not now ... on the bed." Though he held Jean surely, they swayed and slid to the floor again; once more on their bed he crawled over her, saying: