"
"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.
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