What an admirable person for the patroness and directress of a slightly self-willed child, with the lightning zigzag line of genius running like a glittering vein through the marble whiteness of her virgin nature!  One of the lady-patroness’s peculiar virtues was calmness.  She was resolute and strenuous, but still.  You could depend on her for every duty; she was as true as steel.  She was kind-hearted and serviceable in all the relations of life.  She had more sense, more knowledge, more conversation, as well as more goodness, than all the partners you have waltzed with this winter put together.

Yet no man was known to have loved her, or even to have offered himself to her in marriage.  It was a great wonder.  I am very anxious to vindicate my character as a philosopher and an observer of Nature by accounting for this apparently extraordinary fact.

You may remember certain persons who have the misfortune of presenting to the friends whom they meet a cold, damp hand.  There are states of mind in which a contact of this kind has a depressing effect on the vital powers that makes us insensible to all the virtues and graces of the proprietor of one of these life-absorbing organs.  When they touch us, virtue passes out of us, and we feel as if our electricity had been drained by a powerful negative battery, carried about by an overgrown human torpedo.

“The Model of all the Virtues” had a pair of searching eyes as clear as Wenham ice; but they were slower to melt than that fickle jewelry.  Her features disordered themselves slightly at times in a surface-smile, but never broke loose from their corners and indulged in the riotous tumult of a laugh—­which, I take it, is the mob-law of the features,—­and propriety the magistrate who reads the riot-act.  She carried the brimming cup of her inestimable virtues with a cautious, steady hand, and an eye always on them, to see that they did not spill.  Then she was an admirable judge of character.  Her mind was a perfect laboratory of tests and reagents; every syllable you put into breath went into her intellectual eudiometer, and all your thoughts were recorded on litmus-paper.  I think there has rarely been a more admirable woman.  Of course, Miss Iris was immensely and passionately attached to her.——­Well,—­these are two highly oxygenated adverbs,—­grateful,—­ suppose we say,—­yes,—­grateful, dutiful, obedient to her wishes for the most part,—­perhaps not quite up to the concert pitch of such a perfect orchestra of the virtues.

We must have a weak spot or two in a character before we can love it much.  People that do not laugh or cry, or take more of anything than is good for them, or use anything but dictionary-words, are admirable subjects for biographies.  But we don’t always care most for those flat-pattern flowers that press best in the herbarium.

This immaculate woman,—­why couldn’t she have a fault or two?  Isn’t there any old whisper which will tarnish that wearisome aureole of saintly perfection?  Doesn’t she carry a lump of opium in her pocket?  Isn’t her cologne-bottle replenished oftener than its legitimate use would require?  It would be such a comfort!