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hung, but a number were stacked along the walls. “I’m sorry you have to see my work by artificial light, but I’m not offering any excuses,” Ben said as he tilted the lampshade so that full light should fall upon the easel. He showed his paintings, one by one, standing by patiently until his guests had enough of each picture.
    His work was crude, but not without a certain forcefulness. The paintings revealed characteristics that his amiable manners concealed. He was shrewd and ruthless and saw deeply below the surface.
    â€œYou’re fauve, aren’t you?” inquired Abbie.
    â€œNot by intention. It’s probably my nature.”
    â€œAfter seeing your work, I’m rather afraid of you.”
    He turned to Ellen. “Do you think I’m dangerous?”
    Ellen lowered her eyes so that she need not look any longer at the painting on the easel. It was of a red barn on the Silvermine River, a favorite subject with the artists who came to Southern Connecticut. Ellen had seen many versions of it. The work of a famous magazine illustrator had been used on the calendar distribution at Christmas by the insurance companyfor which Wells Johnson worked. Ellen had always thought this a tranquil scene, but in Ben’s picture the red barn seemed to be crumbling, the water choked with weeds, and in the flame of autumn foliage there was sense of winter’s bitterness.
    â€œIt’s daring.” Abbie spoke, although she knew it was Ellen’s opinion he sought.
    â€œAt first it shocks you, but after you’re used to it, you find that you rather like it. Like Stravinsky.”
    â€œI’m sure I’d never grow to like it.”
    Ellen spoke her mind freely. If she had deliberately set about antagonizing Ben Chaney, she could not have found a more effective method. Abbie tried to signal with her eyebrows.
    â€œAt first,” Ellen went on, ignoring Abbie’s frantic signals, “I thought I disliked your work because you deliberately chose ugly things to paint, like slum scenes and garbage cans. But now I see you can also make a beautiful scene hideous.”
    â€œI try to paint what I see. And to see things as they are.”
    â€œThen you find truth ugly when others see beauty in it.”
    He shrugged. “You may be right. I’m not sentimental.”
    They heard Charlie’s Oakland car puff up the hill. Ben said, “You’ve probably seen enough,” and led them out of the studio.
    Ellen was glad to return to the glow of the gas logs. She pulled her chair close to the hearth and shivered as if she had just come in out of the cold.
    Ben and Charlie drank cider brandy while the ladies sipped sherry. Bedelia was wearing a dress of black crepe de chine, draped at the hips and narrow at the hem. The bodice was cut low, but filled with ruffles of white lace. The dress was both decorous and daring. No woman could criticize, no man fail to notice.
    â€œI’m sorry we’re one man short tonight,’ Ben explained. “My friend, whom I’d wanted you to meet, didn’t get here after all.”
    â€œSo Mary told us,” said Bedelia.
    â€œThere are blizzards in the Middle West,” Ben went on. “No trains moving. I thought he’d arrived in New York this morning, and then I got a wire saying he hadn’t left St. Paul.”
    Bedelia set down her sherry with an abrupt movement. Some of the wine spilled. She smiled ruefully.
    â€œIs anything wrong?”
    Her eyes narrowed and she hung her head.
    â€œAren’t you feeling well?” Ben persisted.
    â€œI got a bit of a chill. Perhaps someone was walking over my grave.” She straightened and gave Ben a reassuring smile to show that the spilled sherry and her sudden alarm meant nothing.
    The room was still for a few seconds and then Abbie broke the silence, shrilly. “Who was this guest?”
    â€œDoes it matter, since he’s not coming?” asked