She was annoyed and amused by her own contradictions: perhaps it was two hundred wars ago they had been Chateaubriand's characters. Atala, a foolish fabrication. For that matter, so was the Rousseau legend: there had been little in that man's philosophy for her these last few years.
"How's Jeannette?" she repeated, envious of their love affair.
"She's okay ... do you see her now and then?"
"Now and then."
"Like her?"
"Not really."
"Are you away from Ermenonville a lot?"
"Yes ... and I don't know much about Jeannette ... she has her job."
Sipping his whiskey, he let his eyes wander: the Chopin bust, the tapestry, the books, the fireplaces, the girl. Bending forward, he wet his lips with his tongue.
Raising her glass, Lena began to sketch in the Maquis she worked with: she found them eccentric, unscrupulous, some of them capable, some over-dedicated: as she talked she appreciated Orville: he was Orv: most everything about him pleased her, his unbuttoned shirt, his wet clothes, the way he smoked, the way he talked, his family accent.