``Do you think he could be having an affair?'' Barbara asked, as they heard the front door close.

``Oh no,'' Harold said, shocked.

``Well, this is France, after all.''

``I know, but there must be some other explanation. He's probably spending the evening with friends.''

``And for that he needs a little bag?''

They went shopping in the neighborhood, and bought two loaves of bread with the ration coupons they had been given in Blois, and some cheese, and a dozen eggs, and a bag of oranges from a peddler in the Place Redoute -- the first oranges they had seen since they landed. They had Vermouth, sitting in front of a cafe. When they got home Harold was grateful for the stillness in the apartment, and thought how, under different circumstances, they might have stayed on here, in these old-fashioned, high-ceilinged rooms that reminded him of the Irelands' apartment in the East Eighties. They could have been perfectly happy here for ten whole days.

He went down the hall to Eugene's bathroom, to turn on the hot-water heater, and on the side of the tub he saw a pair of blue wool swimming trunks. He felt them. They were damp. He reached out and felt the bath towel hanging on the towel rack over the tub. Damp also. He looked around the room and then called out: ``Come here, quick?''

``What is it?'' Barbara asked, standing in the doorway. ``I've solved the mystery of the little bag. There it is ** h and there is what was in it. But where do people go swimming in Paris? That boat in the river, maybe.''