othing. It is
the type to which I belong that's important, the mould, the form, the
sort of composite photograph of hundreds of thousands of Laura Jadwins.
Yes," she continued, her brows bent, her mind hard at work, "what I am,
the little things that distinguish me from everybody else, those pass
away very quickly, are very ephemeral. But the type Laura Jadwin, that
always remains, doesn't it? One must help building up only the
permanent things. Then, let's see, the individual may deteriorate, but
the type always grows better.... Yes, I think one can say that."

"At least the type never recedes," he prompted.

"Oh, it began good," she cried, as though at a discovery, "and can
never go back of that original good. Something keeps it from going
below a certain point, and it is left to us to lift it higher and
higher. No, the type can't be bad. Of course the type is more important
than the individual. And that something that keeps it from going below
a certain point is God."

"Or nature."

"So that God and nature," she cried again, "work together? No, no, they
are one and the same thing."

"There, don't you see," he remarked, smiling back at her, "how simple
it is?"

"Oh-h," exclaimed Laura, with a deep breath, "isn't it beautiful?" She
put her hand to her forehead with a little laugh of deprecation. "My,"
she said, "but those things make you think."

Dinner was over before she was aware of it, and they were still talking
animatedly as they rose from the table.

"We will have our coffee in the art gallery," Laura said, "and please
smoke."

He lit a cigarette, and the two passed into the great glass-roofed
rotunda.

"Here is the one I like best," said Laura, standing before the
Bougereau.

"Yes?" he queried, observing the picture thoughtfully. "I suppose," he
remarked, "it is because it demands less of you than some others. I see
what you mean. It pleases you because it satisfies you so easily. You
can grasp it without any effort."

"Oh, I don't know," she ventured.

"Bougereau 'fills a place.' I know it," he answered. "But I cannot
persuade myself to admire his art."

"But," she faltered, "I thought that Bougereau was considered the
greatest--one of the greatest--his wonderful flesh tints, the drawing,
and colouring."

"But I think you will see," he told her, "if you think about it, that
for all there is in his picture--back of it--a fine hanging, a
beautiful vase would have exactly the same value upon