"How has it been at the hospital?" She sat across from him, saying: "We work in shifts ... I’m in on some of the surgical cases ... they come in fast ... POW’s ... civilians ... officers ... it’s the Nazis we resent..." All the magic had gone from her face; her sentences were staccato; she leaned on the table, apprehensive--troubled by gigantism of the war: thoughts of Lena confused her: she wished to reach a clearer understanding of Orville and his future. Annette served, greeting Orville in a hushed voice: obviously, she had been crying: her face seemed a gnome’s face from some cathedral altar or reredos. Nervous, she acted more like a newcomer than one who had been with the Ronde household for years. As he ate, Orville felt out of place: the familiar napkins, fork, knife, plates and goblets became unfamiliar: so were Jean in her serge and the surrounding silence: his mind screwed about, circled, picked at itself, fled somewhere, wanting assurances. "Was it bad out there, bad most of the time?" she wanted to know, troubled by the silence and his grim expression, hoping to break through. He was afraid to remain silent, afraid to reply: the immediate world seemed to be beyond the windows, kept there by a mere sheet of glass: the past was unreal, thin, another sheet of glass: the wrong word might shatter both: and yet he talked, talked about the Corps, and as he talked he attempted to conceal his hate and his killings. "Tell me more about yourself," he urged her. She shook her head. It should not be this way, he told himself. He thought of her hands, how they hovered over her coffee cup and silver, fragile fingers--not for any Corps. They were meant to help, help the wounded, help children. His own fingers--he glared at them, seeing the grime under the nails. They could not help. Concealing them under his napkins, he shoved them between his legs: tomorrow I have to clean out the grease. Shave. Wash my hair. "They have such good things to eat here, at the Rondes’," Jean said. "While Lena was ill I was here almost every day." Squab ... peas ... soufflé ... chicken ... omelette ... ham ... "Umm!" he exclaimed. The rain was moving about. He stared at Jean’s hair--the auburn, the copper. As she turned her head the colors changed: hers was a dignified head, heavy eyebrows, smooth forehead, thin nose, good head, loving ... her lashes were darker than her eyebrows. "Don’t look at me like that," she objected earnestly, misunderstanding him. "I’m sorry," he said. "Men glare at me in the hospital," she said.