It was a year after the artist was drowned that the loan exhibition of Hugo Blake’s paintings was opened in Philadelphia by Maeve. “Whom the gods love die young,” people said. To remember those paintings is like remembering a dream-life spent with the Ever-living in an Ireland unmarred by men. The critics, inarticulate with wonder, seemed to sputter nonsensical reviews: “Blake paints as a seer,” “He paints on the astral plane.” “It’s almost impossible to believe,” Liam said; “It’s not a human body he has painted; nor even a human soul!” I wondered what woman he would bring home.