My approach to the masterpiece was reverently deliberate.  At the American House I actually lingered over the fried steak and dallied long with the not impossible mince pie.  Thus fortified, I followed Main Street to the Museum—­one of those depressingly correct new-Greek buildings with which the country is being filled.  Skirting with a shiver the bleak casts from the antique in the atrium and mounting an absurdly spacious staircase, I reached a doorway through which the chef d’oeuvre of my dreams confronted me cheerlessly.  Its nullity was appalling; from afar I felt the physical uneasiness that an equivocal picture will usually produce in a devotee.  To approach and study it was a civility I paid not to itself but to its worshipful provenance.  A slight inspection told all there was to tell.  The paint was palpably modern; the surface would not have resisted a pin.  In style it was a distant echo of the Giorgione at Berlin.  Yet, as I gazed and wondered sadly, I perceived it was not a vulgar forgery—­indeed not a forgery at all.  It had been done to amuse some painter of antiquarian bent.  I even thought, too rashly, that I recognised the touch of the youthful Watts, and I could imagine the studio revel at which he or another had valiantly laid in a Giorgione before the punch, as his contribution to the evening’s merriment.  The picture upon the pie wrought a black depression that some excellent Japanese paintings were powerless to dispel.  As my train crawled up the tawny river, now inky, my thoughts moved helplessly about the dark enigma—­How could Mantovani have possessed such rubbish?  How could Anitchkoff, enjoying the use of his eyes and mind, have credited it for a moment?  My reflections preposterously failed to rest upon the obvious clue, the mysterious Marquesa del Puente, and it was not until I met Anitchkoff, some years later, that I began to divine the woman in the case.

After ten years of absence he had come back to America on something like a triumphal tour.  I had promptly paid my respects and now through a discreet persistency was to have a long evening with him at the Pretorian.  As I studied the dinner card, guessing at his gastronomic tastes, my mind was naturally on his remarkable career.  Anitchkoff, brought from Russia in childhood, had grown up in decent poverty in a small New England city.  Very early he showed the intellectual ambition that distinguished all the family.  Our excellent public schools made his way to the nearest country college easy and inevitable.  There began the struggle the traces of which might be read in an almost melancholy gravity quite unnatural in a man become famous at thirty-five.  With the facility of his race he learned all the languages in the curriculum and read ferociously in many literatures.  In his junior year the appearance of a great and genial work on psychology made him the metaphysician he has remained through all digressions in the connoisseurship and criticism of art.  How his search for ultimate