In the clear warmth he found rest: marvelous: marvelous to lie there: and the cake of soap, spinning! He had planned to scrub his hair and then dress but he knew he had to sleep: with the hot washcloth over his face he breathed deeply: he sopped it over his eyelids: reluctantly, he climbed out and half dried himself, stopping to finger the colorful towel, hold it out, count the blue and white stripes. From his bed he turned out the lamp, and let himself go: it was like that, just couldn’t be helped: a sort of a toboggan: the room stopped existing, the sheets gathered about his belly, legs, and shoulders: they felt warm: then, there was silence, and then--though he wasn’t sure--someone was knocking, knocking insistently on the door, someone was speaking: Lena? Claude? Jean? " ... Supper’s on the table ... It’s getting late. Are you coming down? Jeannette’s come back from the hospital..." "Ah ... ah, I’m coming, let me get dressed ... I, yes ... let me get dressed." He had not eaten in Paris: of course there was nothing available on the train; he swung his feet to the floor: yes, he was hungry: he listened: it was still raining: he heard the rain-quiet on the big house. In another moment, he laid clothes on his bed, old clothes from the wardrobe, and heard that other sound, the quietude of death. Everyone’s. Switching on a second lamp, one on his chest-of-drawers, he fiddled with things in the top drawer. He unrolled a belt for his slacks. There was a tie that Uncle Victor had given him. The cufflinks were from his mother. He could still wear the old, brown alligator shoes: they went on comfortably. The sweater had been a favorite: he shook it out, slipped it on slowly, buttoned it, felt in the pockets. When he came downstairs, Jean was in the dining room, arranging roses on the dining table, white roses in a crystal bowl, full blown roses, their petals shattering as she arranged them. "Hi, Orville. Aren’t you hungry? Did you get some sleep?" He hugged her. "Sure ... sure!" He exclaimed and kissed her, her face magical, the fragrance of roses also there: when had she appeared more beautiful! "You look rested," she said. "But I haven’t shaved." He scrubbed a hand over his beard. "These old clothes of mine ... sure great to have them..." "Sit down, my dear." She had put on a blue serge, lace at the throat, the lace in a broad, open pattern of fully open poppies, very provincial, the ensemble nineteenth century. "Is Aunt Therèse having supper?" "It’s late ... she’s gone to bed ... she didn’t want any supper." "Has she sent for Uncle Victor?" "I don’t know. I hope he can come ... she needs him. I hope I can help her ... I want to do all I can." Somehow her calm came as a surprise: or was it simplicity and her concern that surprised! He sat at the table, thinking of the new way she combed her hair, curling it on her neck and over her ears and temples. Tiny costume jewels clipped each ear.