They walked a short distance, still following the shore of the lake: kids were romping on the cut grass: girls had a goat on a rope and they were urging him along, his bell tinkling: they seemed to be headed for the nearby château, visible through the groves: a bunch of boys were throwing stones and sticks into the Lac to annoy the swans. The tall poplars on the island bent in the wind and their movement seemed to impel the island, transform it into a ship: it was headed into the western sun, leaning somewhat to the starboard. As Jean and Orville wandered through the park, she told herself she must have faith: last night’s love-making said so. Orville struggled with mistrust, concentrating as much as possible on the things around him. Fumbling back to the days in London, Jean heard Orville say, in the threatened Red Cross building: "So ... you’re Chuck’s sister ... let me show you your photo ... it’s in my billfold ... Here, he gave me your address ... want to see the snapshot?" "Sure, let me see it." "Okay." "But look ... what’s happened to your leg? Don’t you know that it’s bleeding?" "I hadn’t noticed. That flak sure gets around." "Sit down ... right here!" "Sure." As she medicated and bandaged his leg they talked about Chuck’s blindness, when and how it happened; she had to attend other wounded, but Orville was able to give her details. For an hour or more the blitz thundered over the city, damaging buildings on Dalton Street, reverberating, flinging dust and sewer stench. Orville hated the place, this Red Cross hive of death. "I’ve got to check in," he said, after the hell had died down; yet next day he was back, bringing her a potted azalea. Here comes America ... here’s somebody who knew Chuck ... somebody who cares ... tell me ... "I’ve been thinking how we met," she said, as they walked. "Yeah ... bad place." She agreed. "Better forget it," he said. They walked to a diminutive temple under pines, beach and ash trees eighty or ninety years old. The temple was a semi-circular building of limestone, a soft brown limestone shell, its roof and pillars in a bad way; a couple of the pillars were lying on the ground, pigeons sitting on curving pediments, weeds among the floor stones. "It’s Rousseau’s Temple de la Philosophie ... yeah, but it’s falling down ... I used to play here. See that stone slab, lying at the entrance, you can read the inscription." They bent over the stone but were unable to read the words for weeds and rubble. "Was the temple made for Rousseau?" "No ... it was made later ... he lived in the pavilion of the château." "I’ve been here lots of times..." "Have you visited the château? Is it open these days?" "Lena took me ... it’s closed ... but we got to see the place, the wonderful tapestries in the salon ... remember we don’t have many châteaux in Wisconsin." "Canoes," he said. "Canoes instead of châteaux." "Are you good with the paddle?" "Yes ... yes, I am ... and you?" She nodded.