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.
"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 ...
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.
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.
"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 ...