"Ah ... ah, I'm coming, let me get dressed ... I, yes ... let me get dressed."
He had not eaten in Paris: of course there was nothing available on the train; he swung his feet to the floor: yes, he was hungry: he listened: it was still raining: he heard the rain-quiet on the big house. In another moment, he laid clothes on his bed, old clothes from the wardrobe, and heard that other sound, the quietude of death.
Everyone's.
Switching on a second lamp, one on his chest-of-drawers, he fiddled with things in the top drawer. He unrolled a belt for his slacks. There was a tie that Uncle Victor had given him. The cufflinks were from his mother. He could still wear the old, brown alligator shoes: they went on comfortably. The sweater had been a favorite: he shook it out, slipped it on slowly, buttoned it, felt in the pockets.
When he came downstairs, Jean was in the dining room, arranging roses on the dining table, white roses in a crystal bowl, full blown roses, their petals shattering as she arranged them.
"Hi, Orville. Aren't you hungry? Did you get some sleep?"
He hugged her.
"Sure ... sure!" He exclaimed and kissed her, her face magical, the fragrance of roses also there: when had she appeared more beautiful!
"You look rested," she said.
"But I haven't shaved." He scrubbed a hand over his beard. "These old clothes of mine ... sure great to have them..."