Aurora Dawn by Herman Wouk

deepest boy in our organization. He’s a Sphinx, a silent tomb!” He gave the silent tomb a heavy paternal squeeze.
    A small box on Marquis’s desk came to life with a woman’s voice and said, “Mr. Marquis, Carol is here.” Marquis touched a
     button on the box and said, “Tell her to come in.” “Yes, sir,” said the box. This bit of Oriental fantasy went totally unregarded.
     Electricity is ending all mystery. How can we impress children any longer with Aladdin’s djinn? He was simply televised, and
     worked by remote control.
    The door opened and a young lady entered. Andrew’s heart bounded and his head swam so that he all but collapsed in his chair;
     he stared at the girl with dropping jaw as Marquis said, “This is my daughter, Carol, gentlemen.”
    It was impossible to mistake the sweater, the hair, the face, the paint, the hands. Carol Marquis was no other person than
     the Beautiful Brahmin of the train; the inquisitive stranger to whom Andrew Reale had disclosed, with many disparaging comments
     on the peculiarities of Talmadge Marquis, his entire scheme for the capture of the Faithful Shepherd!

CHAPTER 9
    Containing the story of Bezalel,
    with some of Stephen English’s ideas about life
    and people—and a little more plot.
    A T THIS EXACT MOMENT in time–no, that is not correct, for late research indicates that there is no such thing as an exact moment in time; but
     it is very hard for the clay feet of history to keep up with the winged sandals of science–at this inexact moment, then, Laura
     Beaton and Stephen English were standing in a gallery of the Museum of New Art on Fifty-third Street, gazing at a painting
     by Michael Wilde. It was a beautifully executed honor of arms, legs, breasts, and faces disposed in a circular pattern. The
     color was subtle and rich, and the design, could it have been voided of its charnel-house content, would have been entirely
     pleasing. The title of the painting was: “He Looked Again, And Saw It Was A Letter From His Wife.”
    “I hope,” said Laura, laughing, “that he isn’t going to make me appear like that.”
    “Have no fear,” said the millionaire. “Mike is guilty of many apish tricks like this one, but he knows exactly what he’s doing
     all the time, and, as you must see just from his work on these walls, he’s a good painter.”

    “He Looked Again, And Saw It Was A Letter From His Wife”
    Said Laura, with puzzlement putting a charming furrow between her brows, “But why does he take so many silly or nasty themes?
     And why the elongated titles?”
    “I can explain all that, but it would require a little time,” said English, taking her arm and starting to walk down the gallery,
     “and you must have work to do this afternoon.”
    “All I have to do is check in at Pandar Agency, and I can attend to that by telephone. Do tell me about him.”
    “There is nothing I would enjoy more,” said English, with just the ghost of a smile. “Come.”
    With this he turned abruptly to the right, and Laura found herself stepping into a small automatic elevator. The banker pressed
     a button marked “Roof,” whereupon the doors closed, the little elevator sighed its way up three stories, and the doors opened
     again on cold air and blazing white sunshine. English led Laura through a garden crowded with curious statues, some all curves,
     some all angles, some all planes, none particularly resembling any sublunary object. At the other end of the garden was a
     penthouse, the door of which, as they approached it, was opened by a smiling little gray-haired lady in a very starched, very
     green apron.
    “Good afternoon, Mr. English; good afternoon, Miss,” she said, as though she had been expecting them for half an hour. “There’s
     a nice fire, Mr. English. Will you be having some tea?”
    “Later, thank you, Mrs. Brennan,” said English, as he and Laura stepped inside. They were in a small vestibule, with doors
     opening to the right and