Brent frowned to himself as he sipped the drink. There is a fascination about shop talk that carpenters and bank executives indulge in with equal pleasure. Brent found himself easily drawn into conversation on the merits of alizarin crimson and the influence of Byzantine art on Renaissance Italy. Yet all the time he talked a small portion of his mind was weighing the other’s words, testing and observing. But his host was everything he seemed to be--a gentleman of private means with an active interest in painting. A half hour had passed, entertaining but unenlightening, when a light rap sounded on the study door. It opened to reveal an attractive woman, tastefully dressed in a gray and silver robe of classic Greek design, the latest fashion. She hesitated in the doorway. “I don’t mean to disturb you, Arthur, but there is ... oh, excuse me, I had no idea you had a guest.” Di Costa took her gently by the arm. “I’m very glad you did, my dear. Let me introduce the famous Brent Dalgreen.” He passed his arm around her waist. “My wife, Marie.” * * * * * Brent took her hand and smiled into her large brown eyes. She returned his greeting warmly--with exactly the right amount of pressure on his hand. A loving wife, a pleasant home--Arthur Di Costa was a model of the modern gentleman. The painting in the museum seemed unimportant in the face of all this normality. For a fraction of an instant as he held her hand, his eyes were drawn to a portrait that hung next to the door. It was only by the strongest effort of will that he prevented himself from crushing her hand. Marie was there in the portrait, her portrait.... The same subtle transformation as the painting in the museum. Something about a twist of the mouth--the haunting look in her eyes as she stared out of the picture. He tore his gaze from the painting but not before Di Costa had noticed his attention. “It must be a strange sensation,” Di Costa laughed, “to meet both my beautiful Marie and her portrait at the same instant. But here, let me show you.” He touched the frame and a soft light bathed the painting. Brent mumbled something polite and stepped nearer, as if mere proximity would answer his questions. Di Costa seemed flattered by his famous guest’s interest. They discussed the many problems of a painting and their happy or unhappy solution. Blushing slightly, Marie was coaxed into standing under her portrait. She pretended not to notice the dissecting artistic analysis that could be so embarrassing to the outsider. “That blue hollow in the neck helps the form ...” “... the effect of the gold hair on the cheekbones ...” She turned her head “just so,” and “a little more” while they talked.