"Rosie is Stella's sister. We don't know the exact relationship, but we call her that for convenience." "There are times," explained Cartwright, "when we forget her face and let her sit at the table's head, as if she were one of us. As if she were our hostess. She looks remarkably like a woman, you know. Those wings of hers are like an ermine cape, and that platinum hair. She lends something to the table ... a sort of--" "An illusion of gentility," said Nevin. "Perhaps we'd better not tonight," decided Cartwright. "Mr. West is not used to her. After he's been here awhile--" He stopped and looked aghast. "We've forgotten something," he announced. He rose and strode around the table to the imitation fireplace and took down a bottle that stood on the mantelpiece--a bottle with a black silk bow tied around its neck. Ceremoniously, he set it in the center of the table, beside the bowl of fruit. "It's a little joke we have," said Nevin. "Scarcely a joke," contradicted Cartwright. West looked puzzled. "A bottle of whisky?" "But a special bottle," Cartwright said. "A very special bottle. Back in the old days we formed a last man's club, jokingly. This bottle was to be the one the last man would drink. It made us feel so adventuresome and brave and we laughed about it while we labored to find hormones. For, you see, none of us thought it would ever come to pass." "But now," said Nevin, "there are only three of us." "You are wrong," Cartwright reminded him. "There are four." Both of them looked at West. "Of course," decided Nevin. "There are four of us." Cartwright spread the napkin in his lap. "Perhaps, Louis, we might as well let Mr. West see the painting." Nevin hesitated. "I'm not quite satisfied, Cartwright...." Cartwright clucked his tongue. "You're too suspicious, Louis. He had the creature, didn't he? He knew about your painting. There was only one way that he could have learned." Nevin considered. "I suppose you're right," he said. "And if Mr. West should, by any chance, turn out to be an impostor," said Cartwright, cheerfully, "we can always take the proper steps." Nevin said to West: "I hope you understand." "Perfectly," said West. "We must be very careful," Nevin pointed out. "So few would understand." "So very few," said West. Nevin stepped across the room and pulled a cord that hung along the wall. One of the tapestries rolled smoothly back, fold on heavy fold. West, watching, held his breath at what he saw. A tree stood in the foreground, laden with golden fruit, fruit that looked exactly like some of that in the bowl upon the table. As if someone had just stepped into the painting and picked it fresh for dinner. Under the tree ran a path, coming up to the very edge of the canvas in such detail that even the tiny pebbles strewn upon it were clear to the eye. And from the tree the path ran back against a sweep of background, climbing into wooded hills.