“Sean, I don’t want you interfering in my life. This is my doing as much as his. If you’re going to be this way, I don’t want to see you any more. I mean it.”

Sean was silent after that for a moment or two.

“If you’re ever in trouble, Mary, I want you to come to me,” he said gently. “You’ve always a place in my house.” He paused. “Just one thing you’re to promise me. You’ll never give a child away. Never. I’ll look after any child.”

“You’re not to touch Theodore—he’s not to blame. You must promise me that.”

“As you wish.”

That October, when Theodore had decided he should go down to the battlefields, she had suffered a good deal. But she hadn’t let him see. And she’d realized also that it was better he should go then, before she became so attached that the parting would be too painful to bear.

He’d been gone a week when she wondered if she might be with child. During the time of her uncertainty, she’d been so frightened that it was all she could do to concentrate on her work in the house. And Sean’s words had come to her often then. But to her relief, that danger had passed.

Theodore had been gone many months, and after his return, though very tempted, she had been determined to keep him only as a friend. God knows, she thought, he’s sure to take up with other women if he hasn’t already.

And so they had remained friends. She hadn’t taken another lover, so far, and she hadn’t found a man she wanted to marry. But she’d kept her secret memory, and she was proud of it.

She’d even been able to be helpful to him. When he had told her he was looking for a patron, it was Mary who’d gone to Frank Master and asked him to look at his work. That had been five years ago, and Master had been a fine patron ever since—commissioning work, providing contacts—everything that an artist could hope for. And when he said he needed to get journalists to come to the opening of the exhibition, she’d even made Sean speak to some of the newspapermen he knew.

So now, finding Theodore pacing about in a rage, she got him to tell her all about it. And after she had looked round all the work and admired it very much, she remarked to him gently: “If you put Boss Tweed and Nast over there”—she pointed to a wall that had some spare space—“it wouldn’t look so bad.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he said grumpily.

“I wish you’d do it for me,” she said.

There was a good crowd at the opening that evening. Of course, everyone went to see the portraits of Tweed and Nast, but Frank Master proved to be right, for having done that, they were circulating round the rest of the show, and lingering over some of the best work too.