“Whistler had never talked that way before, and I have since thought that he was thinking that the end was not far away.  I told him, more to get the notion, if he had it, out of his mind than anything else, that I would not think of taking the picture, and that if he didn’t put on one of those finishing touches until I got back, so much the better, for then I could see him work.  That seemed to bring him back to himself, and he said: 

“’So be it, your Reverence.  Now we’ll say au revoir in a couple of mint-juleps.’  He sent for the materials, made the cups, and, just as the sun was setting, we drank to each other and the homeland, and I was off to catch a train for Liverpool and the steamer.  So it was that Whistler and his last subject parted.”

* * * * *

A group of American and English artists were discussing the manifold perfections of the late Lord Leighton, president of the Royal Academy.

“Exquisite musician—­played the violin like a professional,” said one.

“One of the best-dressed men in London,” said another.

“Danced divinely,” remarked the third.

“Ever read his essays?” asked a fourth.  “In my opinion they’re the best of the kind ever written.”

Whistler, who had remained silent, tapped the last speaker on the shoulder.

“Painted, too, didn’t he?” he said.

* * * * *

A patron of art asked Whistler to tell him where a friend lived on a certain street in London, to which the artist replied: 

“I can’t tell you, but I know how you can find it.  Just you ring up houses until you come across a caretaker who talks in B flat, and there you are.”

* * * * *

A friend of Whistler’s saw him on the street in London a few years ago talking to a very ragged little newsboy.  As he approached to speak to the artist he noticed that the boy was as dirty a specimen of the London “newsy” as he had ever encountered—­he seemed smeared all over—­literally covered with dirt.

Whistler had just asked him a question, and the boy answered: 

“Yes, sir; I’ve been selling papers three years.”

“How old are you?” inquired Whistler.

“Seven, sir.”

“Oh, you must be more than that.”

“No, sir, I ain’t.”

Then, turning to his friend, who had overheard the conversation, Whistler said:  “I don’t think he could get that dirty in seven years; do you?”

* * * * *

Benrimo, the dramatist, who wrote “The Yellow Jacket,” relates that when he was a young writer, fresh from the breezy atmosphere of San Francisco, he visited London.  Coming out of the Burlington Gallery one day, he saw a little man mincing toward him, carrying a cane held before him as he walked, whom he recognized as Whistler.  With Western audacity he stopped the pedestrian, introduced himself, and broke into an elaborate outburst of acclamation for the works of the master, who “ate it up,” as the saying goes.