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GM Saturday 21st September, Early Afternoon The art of the Byron Gallery was, as one might imagine, Byronesque. Vivid, 18th and 19th century classical, with, the owner (a Mr Winston Pudgeball) would say "a modern twist". The art itself hovered around the "just above average mark", with some excellent pieces, some mediocre ones, and everything in between. Rich landscapes, clouds, romantic heroes and heroines on Parisian streets suffering nobly for their art, tortured by a sensitive nature, or perhaps by alcohol and consumption. A half dozen people sauntered around the displays, accompanied by Mr Pudgeball, a sweaty, rotund and tall man, with thick glasses and a physique that seemed to have a kind of muscular fat to it. He was enthusiastic, nervous, and very keen for people to buy the over priced art on display. He tried to ply every browser with a glass of cheap rose, and chocolate muffins (that did not match). Despite his vaguely irritating manner, he genuinely did like the art, and genuinely knew his art. He sauntered around Adrianna Lindell like a fly around manure. Pudgeball was a young man - maybe thirty - and without the glasses and without the excess of five, maybe six, stone, he would have been moderately attractive. A bit old for Adrianna, mayhap, but still, she had the looks and he was but a man. And not that old. "Quite the... ah beautiful melancholy about this piece, don't you think?" he said, fawning over Absinthe in Paris, by Rene DeSaens. "Makes one appreciate the delights of modern sensibilities?" There was nothing odious or pest like about Pudgewell. He was making polite conversation with an attractive set of... eyes. For art.