As he wound the line, speeding his reel, he watched swallows dip, fly close to the water, rise, ride the wind, turn. "Let’s have our lunch at the hospital," she suggested, as they walked together. She carried Orville’s creel and he carried the lunch basket and poles. The sky’s greyness worked lower into surrounding trees and fields. Jean shivered as they followed a willow path: she was glad to hump along briskly. "Her funeral will be tomorrow," he said. "Yes, I know," she said. "Will you be able to come?" "I think so." "You and I have seen a lot of death." "Yes, we have." "Life’s not supposed to be like that." They detoured to the hospital kitchen. Opening a half-door, placing their basket on a plank table, Jean told the cook what a mess she was in. "Can we eat here?" "Change your clothes, then have your picnic here, where it’s warm. I’ll give you all the hot soup you can eat. You’ll be all right in no time, Mlle. Jean." He was an obese fellow of seventy or so, his arms swirled with golden hairs, his moustache white like his crop of hair. He thought Jeannette very amusing, her accent reminding him of the French he had heard as a lad in Canada. While Jean changed, Orville enjoyed soup at the deal table, thinking of Uncle Victor, Lena, the war: it was possible that Victor would be unable to attend the burial. If he came, what would they say to each other? Casual stuff about the war? A string of dull comments about the U.S.? Something banal about Lena? He was concerned about Aunt Therèse ... That sadness of hers: those hollow eyes! Through the half-door, Orville could watch the street: villagers in raincoats, in thick sweaters, some under umbrellas, people and pigeons, rain, wind, Nazis. Suddenly, nurses flooded the kitchen, entering through an inside door, some with trays of dishes. Annoying the cook, they swooped around his stove. Suddenly, they were gone, carrying their trays and chatter into an adjoining room. Jeannette and Orville ate at the table, the talkative chef hovering about, yarning about old times in E. They ate hungrily and then dropped into a tobacco shop for cigarettes, and Orville bought a copy of _Le Senlis_. The proprietor was opinionated about the drab future of France: he ranted about the Occupation, about local corruption, a big man with a big mouth. Orville lit a cigarette and slammed the door on him--the fellow still griping. Jean rolled the newspaper and tucked it under her arm. Orville held the umbrella. Wind and rain took over as they walked toward the hospital. ... The sneers of life: so you had a cousin but didn’t dare sleep with her because of your puritanism ... emergency leave ... emergency thoughts ... you ... you went fishing and gave your catch to the cook ... you have a girl named Jean ... you bought a newspaper ... Was that Victor’s car up ahead? Is that our military hero, our 1918 professional? Claude is shutting the car doors.