On the wall of my office, hangs a beautiful portrait of a lovely young lady. It is the only picture of a woman, other than my wife or family members that I have. If I had to guess, I would say that it will be the only one of “another lady” that would ever be allowed, now or in the future, to reside on any wall in the house, let alone the wall directly opposite my desk. I am confident that the only reason my wife allows it to stay is twofold– the first part being that she knows that, for whatever reason, I like it; and secondly, I am usually the only one in my office, and my dear wife never really has to look at it… at her. “Her”, or that “lady”, a generic descriptive is all that I know of her, of the portrait. I have no idea, nor will I ever, of the origin or name of the lady in the portrait. It is a mystery. She is a mystery. However, to me, it is a grand mystery, one that is better left unsolved. To solve it… to know of her… to place her, would be to ruin her forever.