Old Claude Bichain, the family servant, opened a side door; he had been watching for Orville, his bearded face close to a window. Orville, glancing at the rambling breaktimber house, saw his face and, cane-like, lifted his umbrella.
"My, you're soaked! Mon dieu, Orville, come in..."
"I shouldn't have tried ... but it's not far to the cemetery," Orville said, and handed Claude his umbrella and hat, shedding his coat in the doorway.
"I came in the back way ... the front lawn's flooded."
"Yes, it's a heavy rain. The gutters are poor ... we haven't been able to find anyone to repair them. Come with me," Claude suggested. "I have a fire in the kitchen."
Orville followed him through the butler's pantry, perturbed by the house, somehow stiff, apart, unfriendly. The weather, no doubt.
"Change here ... it's the warmest place. I'll bring your clothes, the things that you left here ... we've kept them for you."
"Claude, how has life been?
"Ah, well enough, I guess ... well enough."
"You haven't gotten married again?"