Another couple in the front of the room, swated at a small table, is holding hands. He is lanky, a thin man in his late forties; she is perhaps ten years younger, with tenderness in her features but care gently etched on her face. The man is graying at the temples, but his eyes are deep, alert and young. He has brown hair, otherwise, and a tanned, somewhat lined face. They ar elooking into each others' eyes as though each was finding therein some long journey from which they did not wish to return.

They start singing together, the two of them in harmony, their minds are friends who have lost friends, their hearts with the wounded, but their hands and voices intimately entwined...

Oh fare thee well, I must be gone
And leave you for a while.
Wherever I go, I shall return,
Though I go ten thousand miles.
Though I go,
Though I go ten thousand miles...

A waiter clears their old glasses and briongs them two more tulip shaped glasses of Chablis, quietly slipping back to the bar so as not to interrupt their song.