He entered and advanced a few paces and turned as though to make way for some one of far more importance than himself; and there walked forward and stopped at a delicate distance from them all a woman, bareheaded, ungloved, slender, straight, of middle height, and in life’s middle years—­Rachel Truesdale.

She did not look at him or at them; she did not look at anything.  It was not her role to notice.  She merely waited, perfectly composed, to be told what to do.  Her thoughts and emotions did not enter into the scene at all; she was there solely as having been hired for work.

One privilege she had exercised unsparingly—­not to offer herself for this employment as becomingly dressed for it.  She submitted herself to be painted in austerest fidelity to nature, plainly dressed, her hair parted and brushed severely back.  Women, sometimes great women, have in history, at the hour of their supreme tragedies, thus demeaned themselves—­for the hospital, for baptism, for the guillotine, for the stake, for the cross.

But because she made herself poor in apparel, she became most rich in her humanity.  There was nothing for the eye to rest upon but her bare self.  And thus the contours of the head, the beauty of the hair, the line of it along the forehead and temples, the curvature of the brows, the chiseling of the proud nostrils and the high bridge of the nose, the molding of the mouth, the modeling of the throat, the shaping of the shoulders, the grace of the arms and the hands—­all became conspicuous, absorbing.  The slightest elements of physique and of personality came into view powerful, unforgetable.

She stood, not noticing anything, waiting for instructions.  With the courtesy which was the soul of him and the secret of his genius for inspiring others to do their utmost, the master of the class glanced at her and glanced at the members of the class, and tried to draw them together with a mere smile of sympathetic introduction.  It was an attempt to break the ice.  For them it did break the ice; all responded with a smile for her or with other play of the features that meant gracious recognition.  With her the ice remained unbroken; she withheld all response to their courteous overtures.  Either she may not have trusted herself to respond; or waiting there merely as a model, she declined to establish any other understanding with them whatsoever.  So that he went further in the kindness of his intention and said: 

“Madam, this is my class of eager, warm, generous young natures who are to have the opportunity of trying to paint you.  They are mere beginners; their art is still unformed.  But you may believe that they will put their best into what they are about to undertake; the loyalty of the hand, the respect of the eye, the tenderness of their memories, consecration to their art, their dreams and hopes of future success.  Now if you will be good enough to sit here, I will pose you.”