Mr. Ideal is really a man of refined taste, and the women who hear this impassioned outburst are supremely conscious of their own imperfections.
But beauty is not the only demand of this fastidious gentleman; the fortunate woman whom he deigns to honour must be a paragon of sweetness and docility. No “woman’s rights” or “suffrage rant” for him, and none of those high-stepping professional women need apply either—oh, no! And then all of her interests must be his, for of all things on earth, he “does despise a woman with a hobby!” None of these “broad-minded women” were ever intended for Mr. Ideal. He is very certain of that, because away down in his secret heart he was sure he had found the right woman once, but when he did, he learned also that she was somewhat particular about the man she wanted to marry, and the applicant then present did not fill the bill! He is therefore very sure that “a man does not want an intellectual instructor: he wants a wife.”
Just like the most of them after all, isn’t he?
The year goes round and Mr. Ideal goes away on a summer vacation. There are some pleasant people in the little town to which he goes, and there is a girl in the party with her mother and brother. Mr. Ideal looks her over disapprovingly. She isn’t pretty—no, she isn’t even good-looking. Her hair is almost red, her eyes are a pale blue, and she wears glasses. Her nose isn’t even straight, and it turns up too much besides. Her skin is covered with tiny golden-brown blotches. “Freckles!” exclaims Mr. Ideal, sotto voce. Her mouth isn’t bad, the lips are red and full and her teeth are white and even. She wears a blue boating suit with an Eton jacket. “So common!” and Mr. Ideal goes away from his secluded point of observation.
A merry laugh reaches his ear, and he turns around. The tall brother is chasing her through the bushes, and she waves a letter tantalisingly at him as she goes, and finally bounds over a low fence and runs across the field, with her big brother in close pursuit. “Hoydenish!” and Mr. Ideal hums softly to himself and goes off to find Smith. Smith is a good fellow and asks Mr. Ideal to go fishing. They go, but don’t have a bite, and come home rather cross. Does Smith know the little red-headed girl who was on the piazza this morning?
Yes, he has met her. She has been here about a week. “Rather nice, but not especially attractive, you know.” No, she isn’t, but he will introduce Mr. Ideal.
Days pass, and Mr. Ideal and Miss Practical are much together. He finds her the jolliest girl he ever knew. She is an enthusiastic advocate of “woman” in every available sphere.
She herself is going to be a trained nurse after she learns to “keep house.” “For you know that every woman should be a good housekeeper,” she says demurely.
He doesn’t exactly like “that trained nurse business,” but he admits to himself that, if he were ill, he should like to have Miss Practical smooth his pillow and take care of him.
And so the time goes on, and he is often the companion of the girl. At times, she fairly scintillates with merriment, but she is so dignified, and so womanly—so very careful to keep him at his proper distance—that, well, “she is a type!”