In his room he buzzed a reel on one of his Swiss rods: it seemed alive, waiting for a bluebottle fly. He opened his creel, thumped it, unhooked a couple of tempting flies and dropped them into the basket. Raising the lid of his aluminum fly box he grinned:
Jesus ... all those beauties! Peacock quills ... cock's hackle ... crow wing feathers ... spring, summer, and autumn Nonettes ...
Strewing flies on his bed he checked them one by one: no rust: such colors!
With a pair of rods, a hatband of flies and his creel, he stole down the rear stair and out of the house: there was not much wind ... it was cold but not too damn cold for Jean: she would be there, at Rousseau's statue, in the village.
She was to meet him at eleven--a change in time.
Eleven ... eleven-twenty ... eleven-thirty!
Saying good morning to several villagers, he half recognized a few of them.
He eyed bird droppings on the citoyen's bronze shoulders: purple droppings, blue ones, yellow ones. What was the name of that opera he had composed? But there, there she was, bustling, a rush basket on her arm, her red hair blowing.
She had gotten out of her hospital uniform and was wearing corduroy and sweater.
"Hi, Orv!"