It was a dreary, forlorn establishment way down on Harbor Street. An old sign announced the legend: "Giovanni Larla- Antiques," and a dingy window revealed a display half masked in dust.
Even as I crossed the threshold that cheerless September afternoon, driven from the sidewalk by a gust of rain and perhaps a fascination for all antiques, the gloominess fell upon me like a material pall. Inside was half darkness, piled boxes and a monstrous tapestry, frayed with the warp showing in worn places. An Italian Renaissance wine-cabinet shrank despondently in its corner and seemed to frown at me as I passed.
"Good afternoon, Signor. There is something you wish to buy? A picture, a ring, a vase perhaps?"
I peered at the squat bulk of the Italian proprietor there in the shadows and hesitated.
"Just looking around," I said, turning to the jumble about me. "Nothing in particular...."
The man's oily face moved in smile as though he had heard the remark a thousand times before. He sighed, stood there in thought a moment, the rain drumming and swishing against the outer plane. Then very deliberately he stepped to the shelves and glanced up and down them considering. At length he drew forth an object which I perceived to be a painted chalice.
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