never a public institution. A glance at the lady helped to remind
me of this paradoxical law: she also looked too distinguished to
be a "personality." Moreover one would scarcely come across two
variations together.

Neither of the pair immediately spoke--they only prolonged the
preliminary gaze suggesting that each wished to give the other a
chance. They were visibly shy; they stood there letting me take
them in--which, as I afterwards perceived, was the most practical
thing they could have done. In this way their embarrassment served
their cause. I had seen people painfully reluctant to mention that
they desired anything so gross as to be represented on canvas; but
the scruples of my new friends appeared almost insurmountable. Yet
the gentleman might have said "I should like a portrait of my
wife," and the lady might have said "I should like a portrait of my
husband." Perhaps they weren't husband and wife--this naturally
would make the matter more delicate. Perhaps they wished to be
done together--in which case they ought to have brought a third
person to break the news.

"We come from Mr. Rivet," the lady finally said with a dim smile
that had the effect of a moist sponge passed over a "sunk" piece of
painting, as well as of a vague allusion to vanished beauty. She
was as tall and straight, in her degree, as her companion, and with
ten years less to carry. She looked as sad as a woman could look
whose face was not charged with expression; that is her tinted oval
mask showed waste as an exposed surface shows friction. The hand
of time had played over her freely, but to an effect of
elimination. She was slim and stiff, and so well-dressed, in dark
blue cloth, with lappets and pockets and buttons, that it was clear