THE SPECIAL TYPE
the reach of her lingering look. I had greatly, almost inconveniently missed her, and I don't know why it was that she struck me now as more beautiful than ever. She had always, for that matter, had a way of seeming; each time a little different and a little better. Dressed very simply in black materials, feathers and lace, that gave the impression of being light and fine, she had indeed the air of a special type, but quite as some great lady might have had it. She looked like a princess in Court mourning. Oh, she had been a case for the petitioner—was everything the other side wanted! "Mr. Brivet," she went on to say, "has kindly offered me a present. I'm to ask of him what ever in the world I most desire."
I knew in an instant, on this, what was coming, but I was at first wholly taken up with the simplicity of her allusion to her late connection. Had I supposed that, like Brivet, she wouldn't allude to it at all? or had I stupidly assumed that if she did it would be with ribaldry and rancour? I hardly know; I only know that I suddenly found myself charmed to receive from her thus the key of my own freedom. There was something I wanted to say to her, and she had thus given me leave. But for the moment I only repeated as with amused interest: "Whatever in the world———?"
"Whatever in all the world."
"But that's immense, and in what way can poor I help?"
"By painting him for me. I want a portrait of him."
I looked at her a moment in silence. She was lovely. "That's what—'in all the world'—you've chosen?"
"Yes—thinking it over: full-length. I want it for remembrance, and I want it as you will do it. It's the only thing I do want."
"Nothing else?"
"Oh, it's enough." I turned about—she was won-
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