“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.”
He invited me to call again, hoping that I would find leisure from my many engagements to promise him at least one visit before returning to my own country. His seeming sincerity was very complimentary. Flattery is a strong point with the Centaurians.
I found Abella waiting for me in the vestibule, seated in a wide, deep-silled window overlooking the bay.
Beautiful Abella—she had ceased to interest me.
“You have been long,” she murmured; “but the work is wonderful.”