name is Brent Dalgreen; I would like to see Mr. Kinnent.”
“Not the Mr. Dalgreen! Why I …” The girl broke off, flustered. She leaned hard on the intercom button.
“Go right in, Mr. Dalgreen. Mr. Kinnent will be very happy to see you.” But the lovely smile that accompanied the statement was wasted on him; his thoughts were elsewhere, today.
After thirty minutes of shop talk Brent drew the conversation around to the present exhibit—and one painter in particular.
“ Mr. Di Costa is one of our most brilliant young painters, yes, indeed,” the curator said smugly, as if he had personally taught Costa every painting trick he knew. “He has only lived in New York a short while, but the boy has made quite a name for himself already. Here, let me give you his address, I’m sure you would enjoy meeting him. Common interests, you know.”