At the front door, Valeriaud praised the great tank corps: ah, yes, the French, the British, the Americans! He opened his fly, scratched, yanked his zipper half way. Orville went into the living room. "I attended school with his mother," Therèse said to Orville, joining him on a settee. "She’s dead ... a good woman ... he’s the only son ... quite spoiled, spoiled but a superb pianist." The guest car plunged away--with a rasp of gears. "Valeriaud manages to obtain gas when we can’t buy a gallon ... he works for a construction company, he’s a friend of the Nazis. He’s building a house outside of Ermenonville, mansion, I should say. He has a famous collection of Rousseau letters and manuscripts. He has the whole of _Emile_ written on foxed sheets. He wants me to sell the collection. I may buy it to keep it from going to Germany." At lunch, the three ate without chatting freely, disturbed by the visitors; it seemed their family reunion was already becoming commonplace. Therèse fussed at Annette. She mumbled about food shortages, prices. Lena mentioned movies and plays--entertainment current in Paris, things she wanted to see. Therèse questioned Orville about ready-made clothing in the U.S. Was it reasonable? There were nervous remarks about Piccard and Valeriaud. As soon as possible, Orville excused himself and went off to finish his letter, shave, dress, and meet Jeannette. In spite of yesterday’s rain it was balmy and he opened his bathroom door that led onto a balcony and with his face soaped, lingered there, thinking of Jean and their love making. The shaving brush was not his but his uncle’s: _Lucci-Milano_ was stamped in gold on the handle: revolving the brush pensively, he recalled details of Milan, the shops there, pigeons swooping from rooftops, the great mural by da Vinci! What was it like after the bombings? He wanted to see the mural with Jean, wanted to rendezvous old places with her. He shaved gingerly, wasn’t there too much hot water? And the towels on their racks, weren’t they a little too luxurious? He studied the delicately painted rose buds on the basin: still the same. But the silver soap tray? The porcelainized towel rods. In Ithaca their bathroom was plain--nothing to distinguish it from hundreds. Yet, outside their home, a stream gushed through a rocky glen, and there were grey squirrels. Ithaca will be all right ..I’ll have my office on State Street ... I’ll obtain contracts for homes overlooking Lake Cayuga ... I’ll manage trips to New York ... When he finished shaving he held a towel against his face for several moments.