21)4 



77/ A' AMERICAN l) EK- K t.KPKU. 



JaJy 



theory was right. 



I put my suspicion aside, however, 

 when, recognizing me at last in the semi- 

 obscurity of the staircase, he seized my 

 hand and shook it warmly. ' 'My dear 

 fellow," he said, "I am delighted to 

 see you. Vvheu did you get back?" He 

 overwhelmed me with questions as I 

 followed inside and pulled a chair up 

 to the open window facing his own. 

 For an hour we sat talking over old 

 times and smoking. The conversation, 

 reminiscent, as for the most part it was, 

 enabled me to see that in some respects 

 he vras changed from the man I had 

 seen five years befoi-e. He spoke more 

 ■deliberately — slower. As Benson had 

 remarked, he had always had a tenden- 

 cy to dream. The tendency seemed ac- 

 centuated. At times he wlus silent for r« 

 minute together, puffing meditatively 

 at his pipe. A last I could not help 

 questioning him even at the risk of 

 giving offense. "Benson says, " I re- 

 marked, "that you are quite different 

 from Vi'hat you used to be. You never 

 go out anywhere. What is it? You re- 

 member our talking about the 'perfect 

 type. ' You have not found her? You 

 are not in love?" 



He was silent a moment, puffing out 

 huge clouds of smoke. Then "Look 

 here, old fellow," he said. "I don't 

 know why I should not tell you. These 

 other fellows could not understand if I 

 did tell them. ' ' 



"I am afraid you are crediting me 

 with more intelligence than I pos.sess, " 

 I said. "If what you propose to tell me 

 ■^^ould pass Benson's understanding, I 

 am afraid it would also pass mine. " 



"You underrate yourself. Besides, 

 after ail, it is quite i^pie, only Bi'u- 

 sou \\' such a material person. The 

 Stock Exchan;:;^ bus nuide him worse. 

 Anyway, i am pov;'^ lo tell you. " 



"Ye;;?" I said invitingly. 



"You reraciubcr, " he .said, settling 

 himsi'If I ;;ck in his chair. "I had al- 

 vvay.s !;.y own views aboat women." 



" Y< u espfvlcd a gi'eat deal, " I said 



"Well," he went on. not heeding the 

 interrnptio:! ' 'you know I can well 

 afford to ni. v If I had found the 

 woman I waul(xl, 1 should have maiTied 

 long ago. I could not find her, much as 

 I sought The clever woman had. no 

 beauty, the beautiful no brains, or, 

 where the cou.bination did exist, the 



woman was already married, or had 

 some equally prohibitive defect. " 



"Y^ou .sought for what did not exist, " 

 I said. "There is no ideal woman, as 

 there is no ideal man. " 



"Not in your sense, " he said. "Cer- 

 tainly not in the sense of a man like 

 Ben.son, if he can conceive the pos.sibili- 

 ty of an ideal woman at all. or an ideal 

 anything. " 



"And in yours?" l said. 



He rose from his chair and going to 

 a long drawer in a cabinet took out 

 from it an armful of photographs — there 

 must, I should think, have been .some 

 50 there in all "Just look through 

 the.se, " he sa^d 



I did so, wondering. Every type of 

 female face and female beauty was 

 there represented, from the English and 

 American woman to the French and 

 Austrian, from the Creole to the Cau- 

 casian, from the daughter of the people 

 to the daughter of thepewr. Some of the 

 faces might v.^ell have been those of 

 saints; others were indubitably those 

 of sinners. Barmaids jostled against 

 Sisters of Mercy ; acitresses followed on 

 the princesses of the blood royal. Some 

 of the faces were too utilitarianly clever 

 to approach physical beauty; others, 

 again, proclaimed the triumph of body 

 over soul. 



"Well?" I said at length, still more 

 astonished. 



He spread out the photos on the table 

 before him, eying them lovingly, fon- 

 dling them as a man fondles the woman 

 who is to be his wife. "There," he 

 said, pointing to the rows of faces be- 

 fore him, 'you have a perfect type I 

 tried to find it existing in one v;oman. 

 You were right. It was impossible, but 

 I have got it there. " 



"Yes," I said, smiling at his iutemsi- 

 ty, "but these are only mere photo- 

 gi'aphs. The essence of them constitutes 

 the perfect ty^ie cf womanhood, no 

 doubt, but these things are not alive. 

 They are mere counterfeit j)resentments. 

 You are net a nineteenth century Pyg- 

 malion. Yoa cannot make mere photo- 

 graphs live. " 



"Perhaps not, " he said. "At least, 

 who can tell? I know that when I gaze 

 long en tnese faces I coujujre up from 

 their various characteristics the perfect 

 type of woman and can never care for 



