New York - The Novel

open-air crowd, she had been the toast of the city. The main venue for opera these days, however, was the Academy of Music, on Irving Place, only a stone’s throw from Frank Master’s house in Gramercy Park. It was a handsome theater, seating more than four and a half thousand, with boxes for the regular patrons. Frank Master was a regular patron.
    As far as Frank could see, it was time he had an affair. During most of his marriage, though he’d noticed other women, of course, he’d only really wanted Hetty. But the years of tension between them had taken their toll. And the sense that in her heart she did not really respect him had caused Frank, in self-defense, to say to himself: “I’ll show her, even if she doesn’t know it.”
    Lily de Chantal had been singing in the chorus on the night he mether. On the pretext of talking about the opera house, he’d persuaded her to meet him for lunch at Delmonico’s the following week, after which she had invited him to a small recital she was giving. He had gone, and watched her with a new interest. He had liked seeing her standing up there alone in front of an admiring audience. It had impressed, and challenged, him. She had graduated that day from a pretty woman to an object of desire. All the same, he’d been quite surprised, at the end of the evening, when she’d discreetly intimated that, if he’d care to take her out to dine after a matinee the following week, she’d be glad of his company.
    She had a pleasant little house near Broadway on East Twelfth, convenient for the opera house. And there, after their dinner, his advances had not been discouraged, but not been fully satisfied either.
    “You must go home now, or you will be missed,” she had said. “And besides, I have to think of my good name.”
    “Where can we meet?” he’d asked.
    “They say the St. Nicholas Hotel is pleasant,” she’d answered.
    They had met there ten days ago. The meeting had been very satisfactory. He had gone there two afternoons running, and stayed each time until early evening.
    He’d quickly realized several things. Perhaps it was just because he had lived so many years of his life with Hetty, and that all the women he met socially were like her, but the fact that Lily de Chantal had to work for her living seemed novel and exciting to him. She had a mind of her own. She knew far more than he did about the arts. She could open new doors of intellect for him, make him a more interesting and important fellow. His wife also had a vigorous intelligence. And what she did for the sanitation committee and her other charities was real enough, and important. But Lily de Chantal lived in a different world and had chosen a different path. Bohemian yet respectable, intoxicating yet safe: it seemed like the perfect adventure.
    Yet if, on the one hand, she was independent, on the other, she was vulnerable. She needed someone to promote her, or at least protect her. The idea of having a mistress who was a public figure in her own professional right, but also needed him, gave him a subtle new sense of power which was as flattering as it was thrilling.
    They had arranged to meet again that weekend. This time, Frank was determined to stay the night. And his row with Hetty, he thought with some pride, had been very well managed indeed. Hetty might think hehad stayed at his counting house, or angrily gone to a hotel. But she hadn’t the least reason to think he was seeing another woman. Nor would she be able to find him, since the room had been booked by a third party, on whose discretion Master knew he could rely.
    For the official occupant of the room was a certain Mr. Sean O’Donnell.
    And now it was Sunday afternoon. Should he go home? He gazed at the lovely figure reclining before him.
    No. He’d remain here, and go home on Monday evening. Let Hetty suppose that, out of anger, he’d left for two nights instead of one. It was, so to speak, the economic choice.

    After breakfast on Sunday, Theodore said he wanted to read a newspaper. So Mary and Gretchen set off alone. This time, instead of walking to the Point, they went eastward along the open strand of Brighton Beach. Before long, they had the place entirely to themselves. They went on a couple of miles. There was still a light breeze, but it seemed a little hotter than the day before.
    “I ought to be in church,” Mary said. “I always go to Mass on Sunday.”
    “Never mind,” said Gretchen with a smile. “You’ll