Black Velvet

The party's over. It was a melee not of Millais's construction, although perhaps John Everett, cool as a cucumber, had been imbibing. Drunk on his own imagination and hung up on the telephone. A pair of pears skulk furtively in the corner. Excommunicated by chance but hoping never to be discovered again and again. Bulbous and bible black bearskin clad like sentries stand guard marking time. Art is a curious bedfellow. Don't let the velvet fool you. It could be a trap.