The inductance of his body actuated the automatic butler and the soft mechanical voice spoke from over the door.
"The Di Costa residence. May I serve you?"
"Mr. Brent Dalgreen to see Mr. Di Costa."
"I'm sorry, but I have no information regarding you, sir, if you care to leave a mess—" The robot tones stopped with a sharp click, to be replaced by a man's voice.
"I am very happy to greet you, Mr. Dalgreen. Won't you please step in?"
The door swung quietly open to reveal a small wood-paneled vestibule. It wasn't until the door closed again that Brent recognized it as an elevator. There was a feeling of motion and the end wall slid back to reveal a book-lined sitting room. The occupant turned from his desk and stepped forward.
Brent took the proffered hand — at the same time trying to penetrate the man's smile. Di Costa was taller than Brent with a thinness that seemed to contradict his graceful movements. They shook hands, and his hand had the same qualities: thin, long and strong. At this point Brent realized he was staring; he hastened to respond to his host's hospitality.
"I hope you will excuse my just dropping in like this, Mr. Di Costa. I have seen some work of yours at the Metropolitan, and found it, well, very interesting."
Brent stopped, aware of how weak his reasons seemedwhen brought out in conversation. He was more than pleased when Di Costa interrupted him.
"I understand perfectly, Mr. Dalgreen. I have had the same experience many times when looking at your paintings and those of some of our fellow artists." He smiled. "Not all of them, I assure you. I have looked at these works and said to myself, I would like to meet the man who did that. This very rarely happens, a fact which I deplore. That you feel the same way towards my work is both flattering and most enjoyable."
Di Costa's friendliness broke the ice; they were soon on the best of terms. Brent sat in the comfortable leather chair while Di Costa mixed drinks at the built-in bar. This gave him a chance to look around the room. A brown study, it fitted the word. The decorations were all subdued to the room as a whole, the sort of things a man would buy for himself. The only clashing note was the rotary book rack in the corner.
He suddenly realized that it was revolving slowly, had been doing so since he first entered the room. Something else. . yes, there on the desk, the bronze ashtray was also revolving with the same steady motion. They created an unusual effect, yet an oddly pleasing one. It fitted the room and the owner's personality.
"And here are the drinks. A toast first — always a good idea. Long life and good painting, to both of us."
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.
