As Orville covered Lena on the truck floor he heard what was being said: he was not interested: drawing aside the blanket he had a final look, a long look, seeing Lena when kindness was kindness, when responsibilities were nil: fun, that was Lena: they felt they were more than cousins: slowly folding the blanket over her he was keenly aware that he was folding it over many things. In his room he buzzed a reel on one of his Swiss rods: it seemed alive, waiting for a bluebottle fly. He opened his creel, thumped it, unhooked a couple of tempting flies and dropped them into the basket. Raising the lid of his aluminum fly box he grinned: Jesus ... all those beauties! Peacock quills ... cock’s hackle ... crow wing feathers ... spring, summer, and autumn Nonettes ... Strewing flies on his bed he checked them one by one: no rust: such colors! With a pair of rods, a hatband of flies and his creel, he stole down the rear stair and out of the house: there was not much wind ... it was cold but not too damn cold for Jean: she would be there, at Rousseau’s statue, in the village. She was to meet him at eleven--a change in time. Eleven ... eleven-twenty ... eleven-thirty! Saying good morning to several villagers, he half recognized a few of them. He eyed bird droppings on the _citoyen’s_ bronze shoulders: purple droppings, blue ones, yellow ones. What was the name of that opera he had composed? But there, there she was, bustling, a rush basket on her arm, her red hair blowing. She had gotten out of her hospital uniform and was wearing corduroy and sweater. "Hi, Orv!" "Hi, kid! You’re late, according to my sundial," he said, smiling, wanting to josh her. "Oh, our cook was slow fixing our lunch ... he got into some kind of dither. You know how cooks are! ... Just wait till you see what I’ve got here in the basket!" They kissed, crooked their arms together, and strolled out of the village, along the Nonette, the sun breaking through onto the stream: they did not walk far: he knew a fishing spot by an old ruin: among the willows were regal chestnut and poplar and pine: brown leaves cluttered the path, most of them soggy; it was as if nobody had walked there since the days of Napoleon. They cast from grassy embankments, from muddy flats, and from tiny sandy beaches. She was as clever with her casting as he: it was Wisconsin casting upstream versus New York casting downstream: what marvelous, marvelous flies, she exclaimed. "I didn’t know you’re a pro at tieing." Her face in the leafy sunlight was half-shadow.