"At my age!"
Orville enjoyed his laughter, the restrained laughter of old age.
"And you?"
"Me ... I'm glad to be here. Seven years since I was here ... seven or eight."
Bichain nodded, remembering.
"And the war?" he asked, unsure of himself, trying to interpret Orville's sad face.
"It goes on and on ... I sometimes..." but he stopped.
"I'm glad you made it ... your bus was late, but buses are always late now ... let me get your clothes ... I put some pots of water on the stove ... you see the boiler isn't working for the bathtub." He found it hard to speak: he was troubled by Orville's greasy mechanic's clothes, his bearded face, his staring eyes, grim mouth.
Orville found it comfortable washing himself by the cast iron stove--polished as always. Copper pots and copper spoons decorated a wall. The fire was crackling in the stove; there was plenty of hot water, Claude had stacked several towels on a chair. Cakes of soap.
The rain guttered down the windows.