“What are the signs of the most marked American type you ever saw?” asked Hazard.

“In the first place, she has a bad figure, which she makes answer for a good one.  She is too slight, too thin; she looks fragile, willowy, as the cheap novels call it, as though you could break her in halves like a switch.  She dresses to suit her figure and sometimes overdoes it.  Her features are imperfect.  Except her ears, her voice, and her eyes which have a sort of brown depth like a trout brook, she has no very good points.”

“Then why do you hesitate?” asked Strong, who was not entirely pleased with this cool estimate of his cousin’s person.

“There is the point where the subtlety comes in,” replied the painter.  “Miss Dudley interests me.  I want to know what she can make of life.  She gives one the idea of a lightly-sparred yacht in mid-ocean; unexpected; you ask yourself what the devil she is doing there.  She sails gayly along, though there is no land in sight and plenty of rough weather coming.  She never read a book, I believe, in her life.  She tries to paint, but she is only a second rate amateur and will never be any thing more, though she has done one or two things which I give you my word I would like to have done myself.  She picks up all she knows without an effort and knows nothing well, yet she seems to understand whatever is said.  Her mind is as irregular as her face, and both have the same peculiarity.  I notice that the lines of her eyebrows, nose and mouth all end with a slight upward curve like a yacht’s sails, which gives a kind of hopefulness and self-confidence to her expression.  Mind and face have the same curves.”

“Is that your idea of our national type?” asked Strong.  “Why don’t you put it into one of your saints in the church, and show what you mean by American art?”

“I wish I could,” said the artist.  “I have passed weeks trying to catch it.  The thing is too subtle, and it is not a grand type, like what we are used to in the academies.  But besides the riddle, I like Miss Dudley for herself.  The way she takes my brutal criticisms of her painting makes my heart bleed.  I mean to go down on my knees one of these days, and confess to her that I know nothing about it; only if her style is right, my art is wrong.”

“What sort of a world does this new deity of yours belong to?” asked the clergyman.

“Not to yours,” replied Wharton quickly.  “There is nothing medieval about her.  If she belongs to any besides the present, it is to the next world which artists want to see, when paganism will come again and we can give a divinity to every waterfall.  I tell you, Hazard, I am sick at heart about our church work; it is a failure.  Never till this morning did I feel the whole truth, but the instant I got inside the doors it flashed upon me like St. Paul’s great light.  The thing does not belong to our time or feelings.”

The conversation having thus come round to the subject which Mr. Hazard wanted to discuss, the three men plunged deep into serious talk which lasted till after midnight had struck from the neighboring church.