THE BETTER SORT
"It's so true?"
"Beyond everything."
I considered. "But a resemblance to a known individual—that wasn't what you wanted."
She sprang up at this in eager protest. "Ah, no one else would see it."
I showed again, I fear, my amusement. "No one but you and she?"
"It's her doing him!" She was held by her wonder. "Doesn't she, on your honour, know?"
"That his is the very head you would have liked if you had dared? Not a bit. How should she? She knows nothing—on my honour."
Mrs. Bridgenorth continued to marvel. "She just painted him for the kind of face———?"
"That corresponds with my description of what you wished? Precisely."
"But how—after so long? From memory? As a friend?"
"As a reminiscence—yes. Visual memory, you see, in our uncanny race, is wonderful. As the ideal thing, simply, for your purpose. You are then suited?" I, after an instant added.
She had again been gazing, and at this turned her eyes on me; but I saw she couldn't speak, couldn't do more at least than sound, unutterably, "Suited!" so that I was positively not surprised when suddenly—just as Mary had done, the power to produce this effect seeming a property of the model—she burst into tears. I feel no harsher in relating it, however I may appear, than I did at the moment, but it is a fact that while she just wept I literally had a fresh inspiration on behalf of Miss Tredick's interests. I knew exactly, moreover, before my companion had recovered herself, what she would next ask me; and I consciously brought this appeal on in order to have it over. I explained that I had not the least idea of the identity of our artist's
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