MRS. MONTROSE
SHE rose as I entered the room and remained standing until I asked her to be seated.
It certainly conduces to self-respect to be treated like a lady. I felt myself instinctively assuming a gentler manner as I crossed the room, at the same time marshaling to my aid such remnants of dignity as my long association with people of the "Good-as-you-or-better type" have left to me.
When I snapped on the light and saw her face I was almost startled. It was of a pure Madonna type, with soft, dark eyes, and lines of settled and perfect composure. A type suggestive of a long line of ancestors, and well-bred ones at that. It stirred the latent artist in one, winging one's thoughts back to the paradise of the Pitti, and to that majestic Roman Matron in the Naples Gallery with its air of magnificent completion and rounded repose. I wondered if she had ever posed, and a drifting thought of our portrait-friend Mr.
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