New York - The Novel

he might.”
    So Sean had set up the dinner at Delmonico’s. By the end of it, his admiration for old Gabriel Love knew no bounds. The neatness, the symmetry of the thing was a work of art. And what did Frank Master have to do? Nothing—except go away for a few days.
    They were to meet once more, at Delmonico’s, next Friday, to ensure that everything was in place.

    Sean was contemplating this business on Saturday afternoon, when his sister Mary arrived to see him.
    They spent a pleasant hour, chatting about this and that, and after a while, their conversation turned to the Master family.
    “You know you told me that Frank Master was making a fool of himself, and that he’d better be careful?” Mary remarked. “Well, am I right in thinking he’s got a young lady?”
    “What makes you think that?”
    “I don’t know. He looks pleased with himself, but also a bit tired. I just wondered.”
    “Well,” Sean smiled, “you’re right. Her name’s Donna Clipp. Clipper—that’s his pet name for her. And he ought to give it up.” He glanced at her. “Why, do you think his wife guesses?”
    “She’s never given any sign she’s known about Lily de Chantal, all these years,” answered Mary. “If she’s never known about her, then why would she know about this one?”
    “Glad to hear it,” said Sean. “She’s a good woman, in her way, and I’d be sorry if she was hurt.” He paused a moment. “Did you know Master’s going upriver on business next Sunday? He’ll be gone a few days, and he’s taking the girl with him.” He shrugged. “I just hope it’s over soon.”
    “No fool like an old fool,” said Mary.
    “Keep that to yourself, though.”
    “Did you ever know me to talk?”
    “No,” said Sean, approvingly, “I can’t say I did.”

    An hour later, Mary informed Hetty Master: “He’s taking her with him upriver on Sunday. And he calls her Clipper.”
    “Good,” said Hetty. “That’ll do nicely.”

    Frank Master had hesitated, but finally, on the following Wednesday, he made up his mind. Leaving his house late in the morning, he went eastward along Fourteenth until he came to the station, climbed up the open staircase of the El, and came out onto the platform.
    As he climbed the stairs, he felt a faint twinge of discomfort, but it seemed to pass, so he took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, congratulated himself that he was still pretty damn fit, and lit a cigar.
    It being quite late in the morning, there weren’t many people about on the platform. He walked along it and gazed down at the clusters of telegraph lines strung between their poles, and the slate roofs of the small houses across the street. The rooftops were grimy with the soot from the El trains that passed above them, and they usually looked sad and depressed at this time of the spring. But the weather this March was so warm that they seemed dirty but cheerful in the morning sun.
    Frank didn’t have to wait long before a series of puffs and rattles announced that the El train was nosing its way along the high rails toward him. All the same, as the train carried him downtown, Frank wished he wasn’t on it. For two reasons. First, he was going to see his son. Second, that meant a trip into Wall Street.
    It was a couple of weeks since he’d last seen Tom. He loved his son, of course, yet there was always a faint tension in the air when they met. Not that Tom ever said anything—that wasn’t his way—but ever since that day at the start of the Draft Riots, he’d had the feeling that Tom didn’t approve of him. Something in his look seemed to say: You deserted my mother, and we both know it. Well, maybe. But that had been a long while ago—long enough to forgive and forget. True, he’d been seeing Lily de Chantal for most of the intervening time, but he was pretty sure Tom didn’t know that. So there was no excuse.
    However, Tom had his uses. And it seemed to Frank, as the train carried him downtown, that he needed Tom just now.
    He got out at Fulton and walked into Wall Street.
    Why did he feel uncomfortable in Wall Street? He used to like it wellenough. Trinity Church was still there, presiding over the street’s western end, in all its solemn splendor—a comforting sight. Wasn’t Trinity the very soul of Wall Street’s tradition? Hadn’t the Master family belonged to Trinity, members of the vestry more often than not, for generations? Wall Street should have felt like home. But it didn’t.
    The