A news sheet fell on the floor and he kicked it aside; at the bottom of the page, in large type, he noticed war news of his arena. No ... it’s my leave ... goddamn the war! Let them blow themselves up! All the tanks can go to hell! Zinc and Landel! I’ve got a girl ... a redhead ... calm face ... freckles on her shoulders! He felt her hand between his legs. In bed, the lamp out, he saw the fog creeping along the Nonette, he saw a man walking along the river, he saw ... a door banged on the floor below and everything became more illusive, with the radio playing faintly. Perhaps in the morning ... Perhaps in the afternoon ... In the afternoon he called for Jeanette, the gas tank of the old Renault half full; it was a warm, sunny afternoon, more summer than autumn; Bichain had tuned, washed, and polished the car. Agreeing with his suggestions, Orville was to drive a certain route (no Nazi interference). The car buzzed along and then, at the hospital, it refused to budge another inch. Mme. Ronde, who spent many hours caring for the wounded, appeared on the hospital steps; she said: "You two walk a while ... be together ... that old car! But you know it’s going to rain soon ... when it rains come to the house ... we’ll have tea." And it worked out like that. She was a true provincial: she had to show Orville that she was more than his aunt, that she was an all-out American: "Jeannette, you from Visconseen ... I know where ’tis on our maps," she said, in her rough English. With her effusiveness she asked about Wisconsin, the winter sports: was it true the state had so many lakes: was it true that it got fearfully cold there in winter: was the snow deep? As they drank tea in the living room, Orville sank into himself, the women talking E talk, a silver bowl of dahlias between them: a sense of vacuum haunted him: naked superficiality seemed to surround until scalding tea soaked into his body: the dignity of the old room came to his rescue. When the phone jangled, he jerked about in his chair. "When our phone rings it bothers me too," Jeannette said. Mme. Ronde answered the ring, saying it was Pierre Valeriaud. "Pierre wanted to apologize for being intoxicated when he was here--he’s a pretty nice man." As she lifted her cup, her facial expression became set, almost pained, as if this was something medicinal she was drinking. In her ladderback chair she seemed to overfill it: for a while she had nothing to say: drinking her tea, biting sandwiches, she might have been a peasant overwhelmed by work or tragedy. When Claude entered and announced three priests, Mme. Ronde was displeased: "They’re men who help with refugees!" she exclaimed, and stalked off. "Have them sit in the dining room ... I have to go upstairs for a list." While she was gone, Orville found Claude and asked him about the bikes: were they stored in the barn, in the house? Have they been used a lot?