As she undressed she noticed a pencil of clouds, the scattered hay and straw, the horse blanket: she knew how she was going to spread the blanket, where there was a little sun. She wanted to say, darling, I love you, but busied herself with her clothes. He had nothing to say: there was something in this nudity, this love-making, that perplexed him, annoyed him: as he took off his clothes he felt he was some sort of damn puritan: lying beside Jean he was more interested, for a moment, in the swallows as they returned. Picking up a straw he stuck it between his teeth; he picked up a straw and stuck it into her mouth. Giggling, she took away his straw and substituted her own. Bending over him; she said: "Bite it." He bit the straw, staring into her face. "Now." She bit the straw and he pulled. The game was on. They had to stifle their own laughter. Straw and hay got onto their bodies. Straws caught in her hair and fell on her shoulders, freckles and straws ... he was captivated ... his mouth covered hers. She rolled him off. Her fragrance came to him as he lay on her. "Here’s where a mosquito bit you," she said. They were lying side by side. "Here’s where a flea bit you," he said. The sun blinked out as they played. He imagined her in Switzerland, at St. Peter’s, old Rome’s St. Peter’s: domes, arches, pillars and bleeding crosses: they were camped on tiny St. Peter’s island: silence, meadows, woods ... where Rousseau had been happy ... where ... "You’re lost to me ... you’ve drifted away ... where were you?" she objected. "I was thinking of a trip with you ... Switzerland ... look, look there’s a wad of hay in your belly button." And he crumpled some hay and filled her button. "Love you ... love you ... love you!" she exclaimed. Queer, he thought, queer about Lena, about us. We used to have fun. Did a lot of wacky things. At school together ... played ... sang together. "How long will you be with me, Orv?" The question troubled him. "Two more days," he said. "Almost two days..." "I didn’t want to ask ... but..." She avoided his eyes--faced the extensive field. She felt herself fall away from him, fall through the present, parachute into far, nobody left, only the wounded, her drab quarters in the hospital: wash basin, neglected walls, dirty windows, cracked door, outworn throw rug. He thought of Lena: "She has a lover in Paris," he said. "Who has?" "Lena..." "But we have each other ... so..." "We have forty-eight hours ... ah no ... it doesn’t do to count ... We..." "Can’t you stay longer?" "You know I can’t--it’s impossible! And Lena ... she wants me to sleep with her." He half heard his own words, resenting them, resenting Lena’s influence. "Who does?" Jeannette was stalling: trying to erase the fact. "Lena." "Orv ... you’re kidding..."