He gave Mr. Chase some pretty hard digs.  He said to him one time in the heat of a discussion on some technical point:  “Chase, I am not arguing with you.  I am telling you.”

* * * * *

Reproved by Mr. Chase for antagonizing his friends, Whistler retorted: 

“It is commonplace, not to say vulgar, to quarrel with your enemies.  Quarrel with your friends!  That’s the thing to do.  Now be good!”

* * * * *

“The good Lord made one serious mistake,” he rasped to Chase, in Holland.

“What?”

“When he made Dutchmen.”

* * * * *

When he had finished his portrait of Mr. Chase he stood off and admired the work.  “Beautiful!  Beautiful!” was his comment.  Chase, who had irked under the queer companionship, retorted, “At least there’s nothing mean or modest about you!”

“Nothing mean and modest,” he corrected.  “I like that better!  Nothing mean and modest!  What a splendid epitaph that would make for me!  Stop a moment!  I must put that down!”

* * * * *

During the Chase sittings, the creditors were always calling.  Whistler divined their several missions with much nicety by the tone of the raps on the door.

A loud, business-like bang brought, out this comment: 

“Psst!  That’s one and ten.”

Later came another, not quite so vehement.

“Two and six,” said Whistler.  “Psst!”

“What on earth do you mean?” asked Chase.

“One pound ten shillings; two pounds six shillings!  Vulgar tradesmen with their bills, Colonel.  They want payment.  Oh, well!”

A gentle knock soon followed.

“Dear me,” said Whistler, “that must be all of twenty!  Poor fellow!  I really must do something for him.  So sorry I’m not in.”

* * * * *

Riding one day in a hansom with Mr. Chase, Whistler’s eye caught the fruit and vegetable display in a greengrocer’s shop.  Making the cabby maneuver the vehicle to various viewpoints, he finally observed:  “Isn’t it beautiful?  I believe I’ll have that crate of oranges moved over there—­against that background of green.  Yes, that’s better!” And he settled back contentedly!

A kindly friend told him of a pleasant spot near London for an artistic sojourn.  “I’m sure you’ll like it,” he added, enthusiastically.

“My dear fellow,” replied Whistler, “the very fact that you like it is proof that it’s nothing for me.”

He went, however, and liked the place, but on the way some of his canvases went astray.  He made such a fuss that the station-master asked Mr. Chase who was his companion:  “Who is that quarrelsome little man?  He’s really most disagreeable.”

“Whistler, the celebrated artist,” Mr. Chase replied.

At that the man approached Whistler and respectfully remarked: