New York - The Novel

gold-painted frame above each bed, and a small picture of somebody’s ancestor in a blue coat and a tall black hat over the fire, and a striking French clock on the mantel, and a nice rug on the floor. It was very genteel—so Mary had guessed at once that, although Gretchen said they were sharing the cost of the room equally, Gretchen’s husband must really be paying the lion’s share.
    Gretchen had opened her suitcase. Now she took out two packages wrapped in paper, and handed one of them to Mary. “I’ve got mine. This one’s yours.” She smiled. “Aren’t you going to look at it?”
    As she unwrapped, Mary could see this was clothing of some kind. She took it out.
    “I don’t know what it is,” she said.
    Gretchen laughed. “It’s a bathing dress, Mary.”
    “But what would I be doing with that?”
    “You’ll be putting it on, and bathing in the sea,” said Gretchen, as she held up her own in triumph. “Look: we match.”
    Each bathing dress was in two parts. The lower half consisted of a pair of pantaloons, tied round the calf with ribbons. Over these fell a long-sleeveddress that came down to the knees. Everything was made of wool, to keep the body warm. Gretchen was obviously proud of her choice. The pantaloons had frilly bottoms, and the dresses lacy fringes. Hers was a pale and Mary’s a darker blue, so that they matched like sisters.
    As they left the inn and walked down the path to the beach, Mary was still doubtful. They were both wearing their beach dresses, as well as stockings and shoes to protect against the unseen dangers of the sea floor. They carried towels, and wore their straw hats against the sun.

    Theodore Keller stepped off the ferry. He was dressed in a loose linen jacket and was wearing a wide-brimmed hat. In one hand he carried a small leather traveling case. After asking directions, he began to walk in the direction of the inn. He was looking cheerful. It was years since he’d been to Coney Island.
    He’d only decided to make the journey when he woke up that morning. It was done entirely on a whim—the day was so fine, the ferry seemed to call him out of the city. And of course, there was the pleasant prospect of spending time with his sister. And Mary O’Donnell.
    Why did men pursue women? Theodore supposed there must be many reasons. Lust, temptation, the desire for the sins of the flesh, of course, were strong. He possessed as much lust as any other young fellow, and was certainly no stranger to the flesh—indeed, he was rather sensual—but his constant pursuit of women was driven, above all, by curiosity. Women interested him. When Theodore met women he liked, he did not talk about himself, as some men do, but questioned them. He wanted to know about their lives, their opinions, their feelings. They found it flattering. He was interested in all sorts of women, from the fashionable ladies who came to his studio, to the poor servant girls he met in the street. He made no distinctions. He appreciated them as individuals. And once his interest began, he did not stop. He wanted to discover all their secrets, and possess them, every one.
    Not that his seductions were without any calculation. His photographic studio provided wonderful opportunities. Once a fashionable lady was standing or sitting in position, his blue eyes would stare at them intently for a few moments, before he adjusted the position of a light and stared at them again. Then he might ask them to look this way or that,and give a little grunt of appreciation, as if he’d just made an interesting discovery. It was an unusual woman who did not become intrigued and ask him what he’d seen.
    His technique was always the same. If the woman was not a particular beauty, he would say something like: “You have a very beautiful profile. Did you know?” If, on the other hand, it was clear to him that the lady in question was used to being considered handsome, he’d remark, “I’ve no doubt people tell you you’re beautiful,” as if it were not important, “but there’s something,” he’d pause a second as if he were trying to analyze it, “something about the way your eyes settle on objects that I find interesting. You don’t draw or watercolor, do you?” They nearly always did. “Ah,” he’d say, “that’s probably what it is, then. You have an artist’s eye. It’s rare, you know.”
    By the time the session was over, they’d usually made an appointment to visit the studio again.
    So