“Dear me!” said the lady, “what is the matter, dear master?”

“Whistler won’t come in!  Whistler won’t stay under the same roof with that wild Irishman!”

Moore, in the inside, remarked in his sweetly modulated voice: 

“Why drag in Whistler?”

This play on his best mot, “Why drag in Velasquez?” was too much, and in screaming wrath the painter fled, leaving Moore in full possession.

* * * * *

An American millionaire, to whom wealth had come rather quickly from Western mines, called at the Paris studio with the idea of capturing something for his gallery.  He glanced casually at the paintings on the walls, and then queried: 

“How much for the lot?”

“Four millions,” said Whistler.

“What?”

“My posthumous prices!  Good morning!”

* * * * *

Dante Gabriel Rossetti once showed Whistler a sketch and asked his opinion of its merits.

“It has good points, Rossetti,” said Whistler.  “Go ahead with it by all means.”

Later he inquired how it was getting along.  “All right,” answered Rossetti, cheerfully.  “I’ve ordered a stunning frame for it.”

In due time the canvas appeared at Rossetti’s house in Cheyne Walk, beautifully framed.

“You’ve done nothing to it since I saw it, have you?” said Whistler.

“No-o,” replied Rossetti, “but I’ve written a sonnet on the subject, if you’d like to hear it.”

He recited some lines of peculiar tenderness.

“Rossetti,” said Whistler, as the recitation ended, “take out the picture and frame the sonnet.”

* * * * *

The Scotch once raised a fund by subscription to buy the portrait of Carlyle, at a price of five hundred guineas, fixed by the painter.  When the sum was nearly complete, he learned that the subscription paper contained a clause disclaiming any indorsement of his theory of art.  He telegraphed to the committee: 

“The price of ‘Carlyle’ has advanced to one thousand guineas.  Dinna ye hear the bagpipes?”

* * * * *

A dilettante collector in London, after much angling, induced Whistler to view his variegated collection.  As the several objects passed in review they provoked only a sober “H’m, h’m,” that might have meant anything or nothing.  When there was no more to see, the host paused for an aggregate opinion and got this: 

“My dear sir, there’s really no excuse for it, no excuse for it at all!”

To a lady who complained that the frequent sittings commanded for painting her portrait compelled her to sacrifice much personal convenience, Whistler replied:  “But, my dear lady, that is nothing in comparison with the sacrifice I have to make on your account.  Just look:  since I have been painting your portrait I have not had time to attend to my correspondence.”