Hubbard nor Mr.
Calvin was prepared to go quite to the length of declining to serve
with the obnoxious parvenu.
Stewart Hubbard was a most admirable example of the best type of an
American gentleman. Arthur Fenton once described him as "a genuine old
Beacon street, purple window-glass swell;" a description expressive, if
not especially elegant. Tall and well-built, with the patrician written
in every line of his handsome face, his finely shaped head covered with
short hair, snowy white although he had hardly passed middle age, his
clear dark eyes straightforward and frank in their glances, he was a
striking and pleasing figure in any company. He had graduated, like his
ancestors for three or four generations, at Harvard; and if he knew
less about art than his place on the committee made desirable, he at
least had a pretty fair idea of what authorities could be trusted.
Peter Calvin's place in Boston art matters has already been spoken of.
He took himself very seriously, moving through life with a sunny-faced
self-complacency so inoffensive and sincere as to be positively
delightful. He was too good-natured and in all respects of character
too little virile to meet Irons with anything but kindness, but as he
was a trifle less sure of his social standing than Hubbard, he was
naturally more annoyed at the choice of the third member of the
committee.
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