THE SPECIAL TYPE
inspection. It was sufficient; they from that instant knew each other.
"Isn't she lovely?" I remember asking—and quite without the spirit of mischief—when I came back from restoring my visitor to her cab.
"Yes, awfully pretty. But I hate her."
"Oh," I laughed, "she's not so bad as that."
"Not so handsome as I, you mean?" And my sitter protested. "It isn't fair of you to speak as if I were one of those who can't bear even at the worst—or the best—another woman's looks. I should hate her even if she were ugly."
"But what have you to do with her?"
She hesitated; then with characteristic looseness: "What have I to do with anyone?"
"Well, there's no one else I know of that you do hate."
"That shows," she replied, "how good a reason there must be, even if I don't know it yet."
She knew it in the course of time, but I have never seen a reason, I must say, operate so little for relief. As a history of the hatred of Alice Dundene my anecdote becomes wondrous indeed. Meanwhile, at any rate, I had Mrs. Cavenham again with me for her regular sitting, and quite as curious as I had expected her to be about the person of the previous time.
"Do you mean she isn't, so to speak, a lady?" she asked after I had, for reasons of my own, fenced a little. "Then if she's not 'professional' either, what is she?"
"Well," I returned as I got at work, "she escapes, to my mind, any classification save as one of the most beautiful and good-natured of women."
"I see her beauty," Mrs. Cavenham said. "It's immense. Do you mean that her good-nature's as great?"
I had to think a little. "On the whole, yes."
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