"Mamma, as we call her," said one of the ladies, "is dressing expressly for her picture, Mr.Kerby.I hope you are not above painting silk, lace, and jewelry.

The dear old lady, who is perfection in everything else, is perfection also in dress, and is bent on being painted in all her splendor." This explanation prepared me for something extraordinary; but I found that my anticipations had fallen far below the reality when Mademoiselle Clairfait at last made her appearance, and announced that she was ready to sit for her portrait.
Never before or since have I seen such perfect dressing and such active old age in combination.

"Mademoiselle" was short and thin; her face was perfectly white all over, the skin being puckered up in an infinite variety of the smallest possible wrinkles.

Her bright black eyes were perfect marvels of youthfulness and vivacity.

They sparkled, and beamed, and ogled, and moved about over everybody and everything at such a rate, that the plain gray hair above them looked unnaturally venerable, and the wrinkles below an artful piece of masquerade to represent old age.
As for her dress, I remember few harder pieces of work than the painting of it.