Frank Lloyd Wright’s great masterpiece might not be to everyone’s taste, but Gorham could see why his father liked it. The museum’s white walls, and its cylindrical stack, like the top of an inverted spiral cone, was in open contrast to and rebellion against so much of the recent public architecture of the city. The huge glass tower blocks that had been rising since the late fifties enraged Charlie Master. The setback laws that had forced architects to make creative designs for the higher, narrower floors of the previous generation of skyscrapers had been relaxed. Huge, flat-topped glass and metal stumps were soaring up forty floors and more, blocking out the sky. In compensation, they had to provide open plaza-like spaces for the public at ground level. But in practice, the spaces were frequently cold, and soulless, and not much used. As for the glass towers themselves: “They are ugly, and boring,” Charlie would cry. He was particularly incensed about a group of Midtown bank towers on Park which he seemed to consider a personal affront to the avenue where he lived.

The strange, curved shape of the Guggenheim, however, was organic, like a mystical plant. Charlie loved it. He seemed quite content to look at the building from the outside. When he’d done, he told Gorham he’d like to walk down Fifth a little way.

If the volume of vehicles using the city streets had been going up for the last two decades, one relief had been granted. Most of the great avenues were one-way now. Park, with its broad arrangement of double lanes, carried traffic in both directions, but to the west of it, Madison carried the traffic uptown, and Fifth Avenue carried it down. Walking down Fifth on a Sunday morning, therefore, especially in February, was a quiet business. To avoid the garbage, they walked beside the park.

The Museum Mile, as people called it, was one of the most delightful walks in the city. Having left the Guggenheim, they passed opposite delightful apartment buildings. Then they went by the long, neoclassical facade of the Metropolitan Museum, and down another ten blocks or so toward the Frick. Charlie was walking a little slowly, but he seemed quite determined to continue, and from time to time, he would stare into Central Park, admiring the wintry scene, Gorham supposed. When they came level with the Frick, he sighed.

“I’m a little tired now, Gorham,” he said. “I think we’d better get a taxi back.” It seemed a rather short ride to Gorham, but he wasn’t going to argue, and it was only a few moments before a yellow cab came by. When they were in the cab, Charlie gave him a wry smile. “Couldn’t find what I wanted,” he said.

“Which was?”

“A guy in a red baseball hat. He’s usually in the park around there. He has good stuff.”