* * * * *

Dining at a Paris restaurant in his early days, Mr. Whistler noted the struggle an elderly Englishman was having to make himself understood.  He politely volunteered to interpret.

“Sir,” said the person addressed, “I assure you, sir, I can give my order without assistance!”

“Can you indeed?” quoth Whistler, airily.  “I fancied the contrary just now, when I heard you desire the waiter to bring you a pair of stairs.”

* * * * *

Dining, and dining well, at George H. Boughton’s house in London, Whistler was obliged to leave the table and go up-stairs to indite a note.  In a few moments a great noise revealed the fact that he had fallen down the flight.

“Who is your architect?” he asked, when picked up.

The host told him Norman Shaw.

“I might have known it,” said Whistler.  “The d——­d teetotaler!”

* * * * *

A young artist had brought Whistler to view his maiden effort.  The two stood before the canvas for some moments in silence.  Finally the junior asked, timidly: 

“Don’t you think this painting of mine is a—­er—­a tolerable picture, sir?”

Whistler’s eyes twinkled.

“What is your opinion of a tolerable egg?” he asked.

* * * * *

“Irish girls have the most beautiful hands,” he once wrote, “with long, slender fingers and delightful articulations.  American girls’ hands come next; they are a little narrow and thin.  The hands of the English girls are red and coarse.  The German hand is broad and flat; the Spanish hand is full of big veins.  I always use Irish models for the hands, and I think Irish eyes are also the most beautiful.”

An American artist studying in Paris, like many others, was too poor to have a perfect wardrobe.  Strolling on the Boulevard, he heard a call and, turning, saw Whistler hastening toward him, waving his long black cane.

Rather flattered, he said, “So you recognized me from behind, did you, master?”

“Yes,” said Whistler, with a wicked laugh; “I spied you through a hole in your coat.”

* * * * *

“Do you think genius is hereditary?” asked an admiring lady one day.

“I can’t tell you, madam,” Whistler replied.  “Heaven has granted me no offspring.”

* * * * *

Whistler once took Horne, his framer, to look at one of his paintings at the exhibition.

“Well, Horne,” he asked, “what do you think of it?”

“Think of it?” he cried, enthusiastically.  “Why, sir, it’s perfect—­perfect.  Mr. ——­ has got one just like it.”

“What!” said the puzzled Whistler.  “A picture like this?”

“Oh,” said Horne, “I wasn’t talking about the picture; I was talking about the frame.”

* * * * *