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with roses and cupids—”
    “Theatrical poppycock! The subject was fifty-seven years old when she began posing.”
    “Fifty-six, and so what? Venus herself would have been a darn sight older than that, wouldn’t she?”
    “Ah, but Venus was immortal,” said Cousin Brooks with a languishing glance at Mrs. Sorpende.
    “Was immortal is a contradiction in terms.” As a certified public accountant, Mr. Porter-Smith did not like getting caught out in an arithmetical error.
    “My reason for asking the question, Mrs. Tawne,” Bittersohn said loudly enough to be heard above the dissension, “is that it’s been suggested to me by someone whose opinion I value highly that the Romney at the Wilkins may possibly be a copy. What is your feeling about that?”
    “I thought you were supposed to be the art expert,” said Miss LaValliere, who had expended a great deal of effort on Mr. Bittersohn, got absolutely nowhere, and was inclined to nip at his heels as a result.
    “Oh, are you?” Mrs. Tawne elevated her sandy eyebrows into the corrugations of her freckled forehead. “Then if an expert like you can’t tell, what difference does it make?”
    Miss LaValliere giggled most unkindly. Mr. Porter-Smith decided to keep mum and look superior. Sarah thought it was high time to get off Romney.
    “Where is your studio, Mrs. Tawne?” she asked. “Do you work right in the museum?”
    “No, I’ve lived at the Fenway Studios for going on forty years now. Be there until I die, I suppose, unless they tear it down.”
    “Do you know I’m a professional illustrator of sorts myself, but I’ve never set foot inside a genuine fine artist’s studio in my life,” Sarah gushed. “I’d adore to see yours sometime.”
    There wasn’t much Mrs. Tawne could say to that but, “You’d be quite welcome any time.”
    “Then could I possibly come tomorrow, or am I being too pushy? It’s just that I happen to have an errand over your way and it’s always such a project for me to get away from the house that I try to bunch things together as much as I can. If you’re not going to be tied up at the museum, perhaps I could run in for a quick peek.”
    “When would you be coming?”
    “I could manage any time to suit you between ten and four.”
    They settled on three o’clock for early tea. Mr. Bittersohn surprised Sarah very much by giving her a surreptitious pat on her neat little derrière behind their chairs before he asked, “Kelling, have you learned anything more about the Witherspoon incident?”
    “Only that they managed to get hold of Mr. Fitzroy to tell him and he thinks it’s very odd.”
    “Fitzroy is an old woman,” snorted Dolores Tawne, dropping lumps of sugar one after another into her third cup of coffee.
    “Now, Dolores,” said Brooks, “don’t be unfair just because you and he don’t always see eye to eye. Mr. Fitzroy is an extremely able administrator.”
    “Oh, is he?” She sipped her sirupy stimulant with sibylline susurrations. “I could tell you a few things.”
    “Such as what, Mrs. Tawne?” Bittersohn asked.
    “Just shop. It wouldn’t interest an expert like you.”
    “Well.” Cousin Brooks ruffled his feathers like a perky old Bewick’s wren. “I’ll soon have a chance to pass on the inside information to you, Bittersohn. Mr. Fitzroy has asked me to fill Joe’s place until the trustees can select a new guard.”
    Dolores turned a shade redder than she’d already been. “Is that so? He might have had the common decency to consult with me first.”
    “But it’s been you who’ve suggested me as a substitute for your own brother on any number of occasions,” Brooks expostulated. “Otherwise Mr. Fitzroy would never have thought of me, I’m sure.”
    “I’m not saying you won’t do an adequate job, Brooks. It’s just his high-handed way of doing things that gets my goat.”
    “I hadn’t realized you were on the board of trustees, Mrs. Tawne,” remarked Mrs. Gates.
    “I’m not,