Gramercy Park was a gracious place. Its rows of big, wide, red-brick houses, as spacious within as many city mansions, were arranged in a broad rectangle around a pleasant central garden. It might have been one of London’s quieter, aristocratic squares. If some of the houses built in New York recently were encumbered with opulence, those of Gramercy Park kept a classical dignity and restraint. Fit for judges, senators, merchants with libraries. “We are new mansions,” they seemed to say, “for old money.” Why, even the land under them had been purchased from one of Peter Stuyvesant’s descendants.

Frank Master had a modest library, but when he got home from his counting house, he’d gone into the dining room, so that he could unroll the maps he was carrying along the entire length of the table. It was a fine room. The table, under a big chandelier, could seat more than twenty. Over the fireplace hung a large painting, of the Hudson River school, depicting Niagara Falls.

As he started to unroll the maps, he turned to his wife.

“This Irish girl,” he said. “Before you engage her, I want to see her.”

“Of course, dear,” said his wife. “If you wish it.” Her voice was gentle, but he did not miss the slight edge in it. A danger signal. This was household business. He was trespassing on her territory.

Frank Master loved his wife. They’d been married six years now, and they had two children. If her body was a little fuller than when they’d married, he thought it suited her very well. And she was kind. Hetty Master’s religion was simple, warm and practical. She tried to help people whenever she could. He suspected that she secretly felt that the Lord was directing her acts of charity, but rather than say that, she’d just remark that she felt the business in hand was fated. He’d also noticed that, from time to time, she was capable of giving fate a nudge.

When it came to running the household, however, Hetty was not quite so easy-going. A few months before their wedding, Frank’s father Weston had died, and they’d begun their married life together with his mother, in the big family house. It had lasted four months. After that, Hetty had gently told him that she and his mother couldn’t both run the household, and so they’d better be moving. That very day, as it happened, she’d heard about a house that was available. “I do believe,” she’d said firmly, “that it’s fated.” So that was that. They’d moved to Gramercy Park.

If Frank was determined to interview this Irish girl, he didn’t press the point at once. It was better, he’d learned, to play for time. So he changed the subject.