"A minor executive, that is," Mr. Replogle hastened to inform them, before Ditmars could open his big mouth again. "More like a shipping clerk."
"Is Orville his first or his last name?" Woman's Own wanted to know.
"Just Orville," Mr. Ditmars said. "Like Rembrandt."
"Of course Rembrandt did have a last name," Mr. Replogle pointed out. "He just isn't known by it."
"And Orville's more like Grandma Moses, anyhow, I would say," commented the Times-Herald-Mirror.
"He is a primitive, true," Mr. Replogle said judiciously. "If you insist upon pinning a label on him, you might call him a post pre-Raphaelite, with just a soupcon of Rousseau."
"I didn't know Rousseau painted," the World-Post and Journal man said, busily clicking on his typopad.
"Not that one," Mr. Replogle told him kindly. "The other two."
"How old is Orville?" Woman's Own held her typopad at the ready. "How many children does he have? Is he married? Fond of animals? What does he eat for breakfast?"
"For heaven's sake," Mr. Ditmars exploded, "it isn't the man himself that matters—it's the man as interpreted through his art! And you can see that art for yourself." He waved his arms toward the pale gallery walls. "Drink it in and absorb the essence of the artist."