Self-conceit is the keynote of the story of a noble lord who called upon me at my studio with a view to my "putting him in _Vanity Fair_." I was very busy at the time, and had consequently to suggest the postponing his appointment till a later hour, whereupon he took great offence and refused to return at all. But I was determined he should not escape me, and I took the opportunity at an evening party to study him thoroughly. When his caricature appeared he was so chagrined that he dyed his hair, which was white, to a muddy brown, in order that he should not be recognized. An old gentleman of great position in the world who came to my studio, had a very red nose. After the sitting, as he was leaving, he said rather shyly:-- "I hope you will not be too generous with your carmine, as it might give the public a wrong impression, and it is an unfortunate fact that both my grandfathers, my father, and myself all have had red noses, and all are total abstainers." Another subject was restless to a degree, and walked about the room instead of permitting me to draw him. "Hope you won't keep me very long," he said, "I'm never still for a moment, I'm always walking about my room. You'd better do me with a book in my hand as though I were dictating to my clerk." I was rather disconcerted, for this was not to be a caricature, but a characteristic portrait. "But," I said, "your friends won't know you so. Anyway, go on walking." I made little notes as I watched him, and after he had been walking some time I began to hope that he would be getting tired, when he stopped short and said:-- "No! You'd better do me with my hand on my waistcoat." "Very well," I replied, "we'll begin again." In this position I began a drawing of him, when he decided it would not do. "Oh, well," I said, "sometimes you sit down, don't you? And it seems to me a very natural thing to do. Suppose I draw you that way?" Mark Twain was another subject who came under the category of the "walkers." I had a good deal of difficulty in getting hold of him, but when I eventually caught him at his hotel, I found him decidedly impatient. "Now you mustn't think I'm going to sit or stand for you," he told me, "for once I am up I go on." The whole time I watched him he paced the room like a caged animal, smoking a very large calabash pipe and telling amusing stories. The great humorist wore a white flannel suit and told me in the course of conversation that he had a dress suit made all in white which he wore at dinner-parties. He had just taken his Honorary Degree at Oxford, and he rather wanted to put his gown on, but I preferred to "do" him in the more characteristic and widely-known garb. He struck me as being a very sensitive man, whose nervous pacings during my interview were the result of a highly strung temperament. The only pacifying influence seemed to be his enormous pipe which he never ceased to smoke.