When she first presented herself before me in this costume, with a brisk courtesy and a bright smile, filling the room with perfume, and gracefully flirting the feather-fan, I lost all confidence in my powers as a portrait-painter immediately.

The brightest colors in my box looked dowdy and dim, and I myself felt like an unwashed, unbrushed, unpresentable sloven.
"Tell me, my angels," said mademoiselle, apostrophizing her pupils in the prettiest foreign English, "am I the cream of all creams this morning?
Do I carry my sixty years resplendently?
Will the savages in India, when my own love exhibits my picture among them, say, 'Ah! smart! smart! this was a great dandy ?' And the gentleman, the skillful artist, whom it is even more an honor than a happiness to meet, does he approve of me for a model?
Does he find me pretty and paintable from top to toe ?" Here she dropped me another brisk courtesy, placed herself in a languishing position in the sitter's chair, and asked us all if she looked like a shepherdess in Dresden china.
The young ladies burst out laughing, and mademoiselle, as gay as any of them and a great deal shriller, joined in the merriment.

Never before had I contended with any sitter half as restless as that wonderful old lady.

No sooner had I begun than she jumped out of the chair, and exclaiming, "_Grand Dieu!_ I have forgotten to embrace my angels this morning," ran up to her pupils, raised herself on tiptoe before them in quick succession, put the two first fingers of each hand under their ears, kissed them lightly on both cheeks, and was back again in the chair before an English governess could have said, "Good-morning, my dears, I hope you all slept well last night." I began again.

Up jumped mademoiselle for the second time, and tripped across the room to a cheval-glass.