“Just listen to the sound of it,” he told her. And he began to read: “Mon enfant, ma soeur, Songe à la douceur, D’aller là-bas vivre ensemble…”

So Mary listened. She’d only been embarrassed for a moment when Theodore mentioned Walt Whitman. Not that she knew much about the man herself, but she did remember the name on account of a conversation she’d once overheard at the dinner table at the Masters’ house. So she knew that Mr. Whitman was considered an indecent man, and she had some idea what that might mean, and then she’d suddenly been embarrassed in case Theodore might suppose that she knew all about those sorts of people, and that had made her blush. But she wasn’t going to make a fool of herself again now, so she sat very still and listened.

Nobody had ever read a poem to her before, and certainly not one in French, but she had to admit that the poem’s soft, sensuous sounds did seem rather like the waves of the sea, and she supposed that if she spoke French she might find the poem just as wonderful as Theodore evidently did.

“Thank you, Theodore,” she said politely, when he had done.

And then Theodore suddenly said: “Let me show you some of my other work before you go.” Mary didn’t know what he meant, but while Theodore went over to a set of wide drawers and withdrew some folders, Gretchen explained.

“This means we’re honored, Mary,” she said. “Theodore takes portraits for a living, but he cares even more about his private work. He doesn’t often talk about it.”

When Theodore came back, he put the folders on the table in front of them and opened the covers. Soon Mary found herself looking at pictures which were entirely different from the portraits she’d seen. A few were pictures of individual people, one or two taken close up. Most were bigger, often in landscape format. There were scenes of the city streets and of the countryside. There were studies of alleys and courtyards where the light threw shadows across the image. There were pictures of ragamuffins and beggars. There were pictures of the busy docks, of the open harbor, of ships in the mist.