of Maggie, and crossed to the Duchess.

"Hello, grandmother," he said as though he had last seen her the day
before. He held out his hand, the left one, and she took it in a
mummified claw. In all his life he had never kissed his grandmother,
nor did he remember ever having been kissed by her.

"Glad you're back, Larry." She dropped his hand. "The man's name is
Hunt."

Larry turned to the painter. His laughing eyes could be sharp; they
were penetratingly sharp now. And so were Hunt's eyes.

Larry held out his hand, again the left. "And so you're the painter?"

"They call me a painter," responded Hunt, "but none of them believe
I'm a painter."

Larry turned again to Maggie. "And so you're actually Maggie! Meaning
no offense"--and there was a smiling audacity in his face that it
would have been hard to have taken offense at--"I don't see how Old
Jimmie Carlisle's daughter got such looks without stealing them."

"Well, then," retorted Maggie, "I don't see how you got your looks
unless--"

She broke off and bit her tongue. She had been about to retort with
the contrast between Larry's face and his shriveled, hook-nosed
grandmother's. They all perceived her intention, however.