The bearded man’s hand came towards you, so realistic that you could almost take it in your own. He had a red nose – the kind of old-man nose that is always dripping – and some sort of clam shell pinned to his clothing. On the left, another man was leaning forward, pushing down on the arm of his chair, as if he was just about to stand up. You could imagine that this chair might be about to fall backwards and the table topple over, bringing that teetering bowl of fruit at the very front of the canvas tumbling to the ground. It was really dramatic, almost like a scene out of a film. It looked as if the people around the table were in the middle of a serious argument. A sorrowful-looking person with long hair – was it a man or a woman, Stephen wasn’t sure – sat in the middle at the back, eyes cast down. If this character hadn’t been wearing a kind of robe, you could have mistaken the picture for a scene in a Western: stranger rides into town, brings some calamitous news, a fight breaks out. Even the way it was lit was like the lighting in a film; menacing, with long shadows. The Supper at Emmaus, it was called.