"Join me, Orv. Have something with me. Mom went to bed a long time ago ... I’ve been sitting here, reading. Cognac? Cordial? Whiskey?" She regarded him intently, his fog wet hat and jacket. "I guess it’s still very foggy," she said, stroking her cat, wanting Orville to sit down next to her. "It’s getting foggier," he said, standing in front of her, removing his hat and jacket. "I don’t like foggy weather," she said. "The airmen ... their missions--you know." He dropped hat and jacket on a chair. Lena and her angora, cousin Lena in yellow sweater, Persian slacks, a bird-pin at her throat, barefooted, ponytailed: she smiled the smile of long ago. But there was no turning back. "I wish we hadn’t changed," she said. "Yes, of course ... but we’ve changed," he admitted. "What can we do?" "Nothing ... but if we could..." "I was sixteen when you were here last. I was just a kid. Seven years ago ... a hell of a lot of years, with a war tossed in." "I wondered about coming back ... about us." "Who escapes change? Half the time Mama’s disoriented ... Papa isn’t the same..." "I hear that you’re one of the Maquis." "Maybe better than a convent," she jibed. "More exciting ... do you disapprove? An honest answer." "I disapprove of a lot of things but it doesn’t matter in the least," he said, sitting beside her, making the cat relinquish a little space. "Your girl is a fighter," Lena said. "Fighting for men’s lives." "We Maquis fight for men’s lives!" she exclaimed, her eyes glassy, and narrow-slitted: she was recalling her last parachute drop. "Better than capitulation! Better than fraternization!" "I know, I know ... a great job! A tough job. I’ve heard some things! Without you ... it would be that much longer ... cost more lives ... I know!" She puttered with whiskey that Claude had brought in. Standing in front of Orville she noticed that his wet clothes made his sex conspicuous. She felt his equal, as friend, as lover. As friend and equal she could confide her Maquis experiences: as part of the Ronde family, its military background, she admired his "uniform": they had much in common: she had been his Amélie. "Take off your wet shoes ... don’t you want to change? How about something? ... Your favorites are ready." Stooping, she touched his shoulder, her fingers moving along his collar, moving to his face. "Let’s try to go on as we were ... We read our Atala and René by the lake. So, we lived two hundred years ago, climbed the hills, sailed our lake ... ours was all sweetness, as Chateaubriand would say." Yet as she said this she wanted Orville naked, wanted herself naked, both of them lying by the fire. Lifting the cat onto her lap, she folded her feet under her skirt, and said: "How’s Jean?"