take the proper steps."

Nevin said to West: "I hope you understand."

"Perfectly," said West.

"We must be very careful," Nevin pointed out. "So few would understand."

"So very few," said West.

Nevin stepped across the room and pulled a cord that hung along the wall. One of the tapestries rolled smoothly back, fold on heavy fold. West, watching, held his breath at what he saw.

A tree stood in the foreground, laden with golden fruit, fruit that looked exactly like some of that in the bowl upon the table. As if someone had just stepped into the painting and picked it fresh for dinner.

Under the tree ran a path, coming up to the very edge of the canvas in such detail that even the tiny pebbles strewn upon it were clear to the eye. And from the tree the path ran back against a sweep of background, climbing into wooded hills.

For the flicker of a passing second, West could have sworn that he heard the whisper of wind in the leaves of the fruit-laden tree, that he saw the leaves tremble in the wind, that he smelled the fragrance of little flowers that bloomed along the path.

"Well, Mr. West?" Nevin asked, triumphantly.

"Why," said West, ears still cocked for the sound of wind in leaves again. "Why, it almost seems as if one could step over and walk straight down that path."

Nevin sucked in his breath with a sound that was neither gasp nor sigh, but somewhere in between. Down at the end of the table, Cartwright was choking on his wine, chuckling laughter bubbling out between his lips despite all his efforts to keep it bottled up.

"Nevin," asked West, "have you ever thought of making another painting?"

"Perhaps," said Nevin. "Why do you ask?"

West smiled. Through his brain words were drumming, words that he remembered, words a man had whispered just before he died.

"I was just thinking," 

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