Sunlight fell on the huge ruined castle as they fished below it, from blocks of masonry, thick, limestone slabs, some of them mossy and intricately carved. Orville’s stone--the one he was casting from--bore a hooded falcon with Latin letters chiselled under its claws. They cast into a pool overhung by a three-story chunk of masonry, a dark green pool, free of snags or leaves, pool and castle merging. She dropped a fly inside a water window: with each flick of the fly the window disappeared, to reappear almost immediately. They didn’t talk as they fished. A dove talked. A raven settled in a pine, intrigued by the fishermen. Downstream cattle waded, sucking softly, up to their knees in the water. "Good boy," Jean exclaimed, as he got a strike. "Bring him in easy ... easy does it." Releasing some line, he played his trout: the reel’s spinning thrilled him: the line sliced across the water, forming a ragged oval: he was in New York again. Jeannette longed to sign out, her job forsaken: she longed to keep him forever. "Not very big," he said, landing his catch. "A pound or so, I guess." But he was very pleased. "He’s great ... he’s great!" She loved his face. Plopping his catch into his creel, he said: "There used to be some big ones in here ... years ago Prince Radziwill stocked the Nonette. I’ve heard some tall stories." "I’ve heard that the Radziwills still take care of Ermenonville," she said, casting again. "I’ve never met any of the family ... they help the hospital financially." "They may convert their country house into a hospital," he said. "I’ve heard that too." While they fished the sun ducked behind the castle. Clouds. The kind that seem to be sheared off a sheep appeared along the horizon, above the trees; they seemed headed for the Nonette and E. As Jean hopped from one block of masonry to another, she slipped into the stream, soaking herself to the knees: for a while she kidded about it but as the wind increased she complained of the cold. "I’ve got to quit," she said, but at that moment, as she moved toward the embankment for shelter from the wind, she got a strike. Too cold and uncomfortable to play her fish she landed the trout quickly, saying: "Okay ... okay ... I have to quit ... my sweater’s not enough to keep me warm ... let’s go to the hospital..." "Well we’ve each landed one. That’s pretty darn good," he said. Her rod against a tree, she fussed with her sweater collar and trousers, appreciating Orville’s graceful cast--the dimple of his fly as it settled. When will he have another chance? "Stay on, Orville ... meet at the hospital ... go on ... you’ll land another one." His thoughts, as he played his line, cameraed across time, clicked, stopped: there he was with Lena in her boat on the Nonette: she was trolling, the wind warm, cattails along the banks ... "I’m coming, Jean ... Just a second."