“What is there so uncommon about Miss Treherne? She had not struck me as being remarkable.”
“No? Well, of course, she is not striking after the fashion of Mrs. Falchion. But watch her, study her, and you will find her to be the perfection of a type—the finest expression of a decorous convention, a perfect product of social conservatism; unaffected, cheerful, sensitive, composed, very talented, altogether companionable.”
“Excuse me,” I said, laughing, though I was impressed; “that sounds as if you had been writing about her, and applying to her the novelist’s system of analysis, which makes an imperfect individual a perfect type. Now, frankly, are you speaking of Miss Treherne, or of some one of whom she is the outline, as it were?”
Clovelly turned and looked at me steadily. “When you consider a patient,” he said, “do you arrange a diagnosis of a type or of a person?—And, by the way, ‘type’ is a priggish word.”
“I consider the type in connection with the person.”
“Exactly. The person is the thing. That clears up the matter of business and art. But now, as to Miss Treherne: I want to say that, having been admitted to her acquaintance and that of her father, I have thought of them only as friends, and not as ‘characters’ or ‘copy.’”
“I beg your pardon, Clovelly,” said I. “I might have known.”
“Now, to prove how magnanimous I am, I shall introduce you to Miss Treherne, if you will let me. You’ve met her father, I suppose?” he added, and tossed his cigar overboard.
“Yes, I have talked with him. He is a courteous and able man, I should think.”
We rose. Presently he continued: “See, Miss Treherne is sitting there with the Tasmanian widow—what is HER name?”