“If it ’twas myself, I’d be having a whiskey,” she whispered as, ignoring my signal, she set down the glass.

Aidan O’Hanlon, however, had no such reluctance. He raised his glass with gusto and, with each swallow, his tongue loosened more. It was then he began talking again, this time about himself, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I judged that he would not expect any more talk out of me, and I was right.

Some of the things he told me I already knew about from Mrs. Donahue. He explained he’d been born in New York and that his father was a banker, that his mother had left the family when he was young, and his two brothers had followed their father into banking. So, he was the black sheep, I thought. I was dying to ask a million questions but didn’t dare.

As he talked, I got the impression he had forgotten I was in the room. I fought back the drowsiness that had suddenly come over me. I wanted to hear every word he said. I was almost giddy that he was sharing so much with me, yet at the same time I felt like a guilty intruder, prying into his private thoughts.

“And then I met Mary. She was so beautiful. . . .”

My ears pricked up as he mentioned her name. I was very curious about her. From the photos I had seen of her on a side table in the library, she was indeed beautiful, and the way Mrs. Donahue spoke of her, she could have been a saint. The truth was that I was a bit jealous of her.

He looked up at me as if suddenly remembering I was in the room.

“She died because of me,” he said, his speech slurring. “If I hadn’t taken her to Texas, she would still be alive.” He took another gulp of his whiskey. “She left me, Miss Sweeney, just like my mother left after she told me she never would. The ones you love will always leave you in the end, one way or another. It may have been my fault they left, but I will never let it happen again. Love is a curse, Miss Sweeney; don’t ever let yourself fall in love.”

He was rambling now, and making no sense. Surely he couldn’t be equating Mary’s death with deliberately leaving him? And quite likely there was more to the story of his mother’s departure than he was saying. The events had evidently become all mixed up in his mind. What was clear to me was that his trust in those close to him had been destroyed, one way or the other, and the poor man was tortured by it.

His head drooped, and the sound of his deep breathing told me he had fallen asleep. I watched him for a while, then stood up and went over to him. Gently, I took the empty glass from his hand and set it on the table. He didn’t stir. I draped a blanket over him and tiptoed out of the door and up the stairs.