Alpha Book

On the morning which opens this chronicle, Anastase was standing before
his canvas, palette and brushes in hand, considering the nature of the
human face in general and of young Orsino's face in particular.
"I have known your father and mother for centuries," observed the
painter with a fine disregard of human limitations. "Your father is the
brown type of a dark man, and your mother is the olive type of a dark
woman. They are no more alike than a Red Indian and an Arab, but you are
like both. Are you brown or are you olive, my friend? That is the
question. I would like to see you angry, or in love, or losing at play.
Those things bring out the real complexion."
Orsino laughed and showed a remarkably solid set of teeth. But he did
not find anything to say.
"I would like to know the truth about your complexion," said Anastase,
meditatively.
"I have no particular reason for being angry," answered Orsino, "and I
am not in love--"
"At your age! Is it possible!"
"Quite. But I will play cards with you if you like," concluded the young
man.


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