She perched on the foot of his bed and her raincoat fell away from her shoulders, pinioning her hands. Her cheeks, flushed by cold and anxiety, were red.
"Talk to me," she said.
"There's nothing to talk about. I'm wearing these filthy clothes ... I have my ID ... I'll get to Paris on the bus ... there are fewer checks by the Moire route ... so..." Leaning against his chest-of-drawers, he hunted through his pockets for his lighter: no, it was in his jacket. His fingers touched his jackknife. The feel of it helped. "It's quite simple," he said. "I can't go on with you. I slept with a girl last night at an inn. It's back to the Corps. I'm trapped. I haven't guts enough to desert, so ... at the best ... we had two days..."
Jeannette rubbed her face and rubbed her hand over her eyes; she remembered crude things Orville had said; her love for him had died down, then welled up; she held out her lighter as he continued poking-poking through his pockets.
"Here, Orv..."
As he bent over the flame she said:
"I'm sorry I wasn't enough for you."
"It wasn't that." Or was it?
"What was it then?"
"I ... I have to go ... I..."