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.
Yet all during the discussion a small part of Brent's mind was weighing and analyzing. The how of the paintings was becoming clearer although the why still escaped him. It wasn't that there was an alienness in the figure itself, it was more as if the person were looking at something totally strange to worldly eyes.
He felt the small throb of an incipient headache as his frustrated thoughts danced dizzily inward on themselves in ever tightening circles. The mellow sound of a chime from the wall cabinet provided a welcome interruption. Di Costa excused himself and stepped out of the room — leaving Brent alone with Marie. They had just seated themselves when Di Costa returned, looking as if he had received painful news.
"I must ask you to excuse me, but my lawyer wishes to see me at once — a small but important matter about my estate. I am most unhappy to leave now. We must continue our talk another time. Please do not leave on my account, Mr. Dalgreen — my house is at your service."
When her husband left, Brent and Marie Di Costa talked idly on irrelevant topics; they had to, since he had no idea of what might be relevant. You couldn't walk up to a girl whom you'd met for the first time and ask, "Madam, does your husband paint monsters? Or perhaps you dabble in witchcraft! Is that the secret?"
A quick glance at his watch convinced him it was time to go, before he wore out his welcome.
Turning to light a cigarette his eyes fell on the mantle clock. He registered surprise.
"Why, it's three-thirty already! I'm afraid I'll have to be leaving."
She rose, smiling. "You have been a most delightful guest.” she laughed. "I know I speak for Arthur as well as myself when I say I hope to see you again."
"I may take you up on that," Brent said.
Their forward progress was suddenly impeded as the elevator swung open to discharge a small bundle of screaming humanity. Dazed, Brent realized it was a young girl as she swept past. The child collapsed on Marie Di Costa's shoulder, her golden hair shaking with muffled sobs. A plastic doll with a shattered head gave mute evidence of the source of the disturbance.
Brent stood by self-consciously until the crying was soothed. Marie flashed him an understanding smile while she convinced the child at least to say hello to the visitor. He was rewarded with the sight of the red, tear-stained face.
"Dotty, I want you to meet Mr. Dalgreen."
"How do you do, Mr. Dalgreen. . but Mommy the boy stepped on the doll and he laughed when it broke and…"
The thought was once again too much to bear — the tears began to course again through the well-used waterways.
"Cheer up, Dotty. You wouldn't want your father to see you like this.” Brent suggested.
These seemingly innocent words, while having no effect on the little girl, had a marked effect on her mother. Her face whitened.
"Arthur is not Dotty's father, Mr. Dalgreen. You see, this is my second marriage. He… I mean we cannot have children." She spoke the words as if they were a pain, heavy within her.
Brent was slightly embarrassed — yet elated at the same time. This was the first crack in the facade of normality that concealed the occupants of the house. Her sudden change of expression could only mean that there was something troubling her — something he would give his last tube of oil paint to find out. Perhaps it wasn't the secret hidden in the painting, but there must be a relationship somewhere. He was determined to search it out.
Apartment lights were out all over the city, the daytime world was asleep. Brent stirred in the large chair and reached out for the glass of sparkling Burgundy that was slowly dying on the end table. A little flat — but still very good. It was one of the luxuries he allowed himself. A luxury that might really be called a necessity to one who lived by selling his emotional responses, translated into color.
The wine was going flat, but the view of the city never would. New York, the eternal wonder city. The soft lights of his studio threw no reflections on the window, and his sight traveled easily over the architectural fairyland. Sparkling search-beams swept across the sky, throwing an occasional glint as they slid across a jetcar or a strato-plane. A thousand lights of a thousand hues twinkled in the city below. Even here on the one-hundred-eightieth floor he could hear the throbbing roar of its ceaseless activity. This was the foremost of the cities of man, yet somewhere in that city was a man was not quite human.
