"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.
When will he have another chance?
"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 ...
"I'm coming, Jean ... Just a second."
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.