“Stored on those shelves are rare works of art representing the endless toil of my ancestors,” explained the fisherman. “All were famous, but one only attained immortality. You have been to the museum?” he asked, drawing down a small canvas from an upper shelf. “Possibly you saw this picture while there; it is a portrait of Alpha the First. This is the original,” he continued. “History tells us Alpha the First reigned during the era of Love, and the renowned painter, Francesco, was deeply enamoured with her. But in a mood of exaltation she renounced Love, and went in bondage to Culture, and Francesco, the painter, died of a wounded heart. “Culture opened a new epoch in this great world of ours, but brought down malignant wrath upon Alpha the First, who being advanced beyond her era, ignored the petulance of inferiors. To her the Centaurians are indebted for the grand, vigorous race of to-day. “Alpha the First did not long survive Francesco, the artist, whose reward for deep suffering and anguish is immortality.” I became deeply interested in the many treasures stored in the iron room, but the work of the living artist surpassed them all. He threw up his arms and laughed when I asked to see some of his sketches of Abella. “She is beautiful, but does not inspire,” he told me. “I fail when I attempt to portray Abella. Life, animation, is her beauty; repose, the death mask. Landscape is beautiful on canvas, but never reaches the beauty of reality. Those women up there that I know you do not admire have made me famous.” He referred to the gaunt, dark-visaged ideal. “All Centauri recognizes them as the type of a perverted age,” he continued, “showing this race has lived through and conquered degeneration. Those faces are arch, subtle, perfectly beautiful; to study them is fascinating. The scowling brows arch, the eyes take deeper tinges, and the lips—ah!” I turned away smiling, muttering in jest. He advised me when I returned to Centur to visit the Salon, there I would find a portrait of Abella, “which impressed, but gave dissatisfaction, lacking that which made Abella a beautiful woman.” He opened an exquisitely carved cabinet and taking out an oblong leather case, remarked: “that this was some of his first work.” Then, without warning, he thrust before me a portrait of Alpha Centauri. I gasped. Skill! Powers above! Alpha Centauri stood before me, marvelously beautiful, enveloped in a broad stream of golden light, devout, with eyes and arms raised heavenward, in the Temple of the Sun. I’m not certain how I acted; men in love are usually maudlin. I had been away a long time—must return—must see, speak with her at once! I implored, begged for the portrait. The man stared at me in amazement, then quietly closed the case and pressed my hand upon it—the picture was mine. He pitied, yet could not understand. As we parted, he murmured: “Very unfortunate, great passion wasted. The women of the Great Family are sacred; the men only mate.”