— There's no way anybody could prove a God-damned thing wrong here. There's no proof anywhere. But the insurance, the only thing they won't insure against is if something happens to it all by itself. In the paint.
— Inherent vice.
— What?
— They hardly need worry about something this. old? The care that goes into these, still. the three-legged man of Velasquez? Never mind. As paint ages, it becomes translucent, and work which has been altered occasionally shows through. But of course no one will insure against inherent vice. A lot of our moderns make sudden changes dictated by the total uncertainty of what they're doing, which they call inspiration, and paint over them. The paint breaks up quite soon, of course.
Brown was looking down at the well-manicured fingertips which rested on the corner of the magazine as Valentine, his feet uncrossed and drawn together, twisted to look again at the reproduction. — What did you call it?
— Inherent vice, said Basil Valentine, looking up. His eyes were seized instantly by those which offered no centers to evade. — No one insures against inherent vice, he repeated evenly. Collectors Quarterly was abruptly shoved toward him. Recktall Brown sat back; one hand was closed like a fist round an unlit cigar.
— Sorry, Valentine said to him offering, with a gesture, to return the magazine, — if you're not finished?.
Recktall Brown looked at him, and asked suddenly, — That ring, what is it? Where'd you get it?
— This? My dear fellow, you've seen it a thousand times. A seal ring. It might be the seal of a very old family.
— Very old family! Brown muttered, looking away.
— With a motto, Valentine persisted, — like the one you're looking at now. Dominus providebit? He glanced at the chimney piece. — Yes., sat back and lit a cigarette. He blew its light smoke out over the table, and extended his left hand on the arm of the chair. Golden hairs glistened faintly on the flesh there. — Gold rings were the peculiar ornament of Roman knights, you know. It was the way they distinguished themselves from the plebs.
Recktall Brown stood up. He was silent until he'd poured himself another drink. Then he demanded, — Why do you have to talk to him about this idea you've got? You didn't even talk to me about it yet.
— It's nothing to excite yourself about, yet. Simply an idea for another piece of work he might try, if he thinks he's up to it. Little good our talking about it until we know how he feels. You and he must be quite thick after all this time, he added as Brown returned across the room.
— I don't think he probably sees anybody but me any more.
— Scintillating social life. Do you talk?
— I can sit with him and not talk. Recktall Brown sat down, and stared at the low table before him. — I never knew anybody like that before. But we talk, he recovered. — When there's business, we talk.
Basil Valentine smoothed the hair-ends at the back of his head with his fingertips. — You must drive him mad, don't you? Insisting on business, business, business.
— Somebody has to nail him down to it. What the hell's wrong with that? When he looks like he forgets what he's doing. What the hell, when you're doing work like he is, you can lose contact with things, finally you don't have a real sense of reality.
— If he ever did, of course. You know, Brown, if by any stretch of imagination I could accuse you of being literary, I might accuse you of sponsoring this illusion that one comes to grips with reality only through the commission of evil. It's all the rage. Basil Valentine sat running his thumb over the worn inscription on his gold cigarette case, and looking at Recktall Brown, who had returned his gaze to his ankles, thick under black silk, with white clocks, before him. — How is it I haven't met him, in all this time? he asked finally.
— A lot of reasons.
— A lot of reasons?
— I don't want you to interfere with him, Recktall Brown said.
— Interfere?
— I just don't want you to get him mixed up, Brown said speaking rapidly. He strained forward to reach his glass.
— You know, Valentine said hunching behind his cigarette, — you speak as though he were a possession of some sort. Like Fuller. or this creature. He motioned at the dog, which had raised a leg and commenced to lick herself again. — The one really unbearable thing about females, isn't it. All of them, always so wet.
— I just don't want him upset from his work.
Basil Valentine stood up. — You do have some odd notions about me, don't you.
— I don't have any notions about anybody. This is work. — You know, Brown, you seem to be under the same misapprehension that most people spend their lives under. That things stay as they are. I'm surprised at you, I am really. He sat back against the arm of his chair. — Tell me, he went on concisely, — just how would you expect me to interfere with him?
— I don't expect you to, so don't. Just don't get him started with your smart remarks, and these smart-aleck sayings in foreign languages the Jesuits taught you, that nobody understands but you, and. you know God damn well what I mean now. He has to stick to business. Recktall Brown drank, and sat holding his glass and looking straight ahead.
— You never have music here, do you.
— It makes me nervous.
— Yes. Yes, I think I understand. Tell me. Basil Valentine paused. — Do you think… Is he happy, do you think, doing this work?
— Happy? Brown asked, looking up for the first time in some minutes. — He has enough money to fly to the moon if he wants to.
Basil Valentine smiled, and nodded. — Carmina vel caelo, he commenced in precise syllables, as the doorbell rang, and Recktall Brown spilled his drink on Invidia, putting the glass down on the table of the Seven Deadly Sins.
— Charms can even bring the moon down from heaven. Sometimes, my dear fellow, he went on speaking to Recktall Brown's back as it receded across the room, — I cannot believe that you have ever really studied your Vergil. Then as he sat staring, his eyes again lost their liquid quality of agreeable indifference. He drew his hands up under his chin, so that the gold seal ring on the little finger of his left hand almost touched his lips. He did not move until he heard a voice in the outside hall. — What did you. why did you want me to get out, and come all the way up here?
— Business, my boy. Business.
By the time they entered, Basil Valentine had got to a downstairs bathroom, where he washed his hands. He dried them slowly, looking at himself in the mirror as he did so. Then he smoothed the hair at the back of his head with his fingertips, paused to pull downwards at the sides of his trousers (as a woman does before entering a room, straightening her girdle), and came out to them with his well-manicured hand extended in introduction.
For Basil Valentine, who was conscious of the disposition of every lineament of his face, and whose expressions were controlled to betray no more than he wished, a face to which surprise came with cultivated precaution, this face before him was a shock. Though still as his own, it seemed to be in constant movement, neither wonder nor bewilderment but the instant of surprise sustained, surprise perhaps not for the things and occurrences before it, but at its own constant exposure. The hand Valentine clasped was quickly withdrawn, recovered like a creature which its master dared not leave at large. — How do you do, I… I thought you were Fuller when I… just now. Recktall Brown stood with a hand on his shoulder. — I'm just. used to seeing Fuller here.