"To my mind, the most interesting persons on the ship," said Clovelly at
last, "are the bookmaker, Miss Treherne, and the lady with whom you have
just been talking--an exceptional type."
"An unusual woman, I fancy," was my reply. "But which is Miss Treherne? I
am afraid I am not quite sure."
He described her and her father, with whom I had talked--a London Q.C.,
travelling for his health, a notable man with a taste for science, who
spent his idle hours in reading astronomy and the plays of Euripides.
"Why not include the father in the list of the most interesting persons?"
I questioned.
"Because I have met many men like him, but no one quite like his
daughter, or Mrs.--what is her name?"
"Mrs. Falchion."
"Or Mrs. Falchion or the bookmaker."
"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.
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