If it had not been a question of time and money, I would not have encouraged sitters in my studio at all. When I became pressed for time, however, it was impossible to seek my subjects, especially when, with the exception of men of definite public position, I was not always sure of finding them. One interesting point in connection with the men whom one finds only in such places as the House of Commons, is the fact that one is then at the mercy of the lighting of the building. This frequently accounts for bad portraits and unrecognizable caricatures, for lighting falsifies extraordinarily. Of course I had innumerable sitters who were delightful in every way, and many who, if they were peculiar, were otherwise good sorts; but I am chiefly concerned at this moment with the strange stories of the exceptional cases that have astonished me from time to time. A peculiarity of some of my sitters in which I have rarely found an exception, is as to their professed ability to stand. I do not like to tire my sitters, and I usually tell them I am afraid they will find a position wearisome, which they deny, telling me at the same time that standing for hours is not in the least tedious to them. Half an hour goes by--and they start to sigh and fidget, and presently give in, and finally confess they had not expected it to be such an ordeal--and always with the air of having remarked something entirely original. I have noticed, too, the brightness of step with which my sitters enter my studio, and, after a long sitting, the revived brightness brought about by the mention of lunch. Bradlaugh, who was a willing subject, asked me upon entering my studio rather breezily whether I wished him to stand upon "'is 'ead or 'is 'eels," so he quite appreciated the situation. There are people who become nervous about their clothes. I have known a peer object to spats because they did not look nice in a picture. One man who was a noted dandy grew very concerned about his trousers. After making innumerable efforts to persuade him to stand still, I was obliged to wait while he explained about his clothes. "My trousers are usually perfect, and without a crease," he said, bending to look at them, while he bagged out the knees and found creases in every direction. The more creases he saw the more concerned he became and looked at them in grieved surprise as though he had never seen them before. A sitter who worried over his clothes came to me in the form of a gentleman from Islington, who wore the most extraordinary trousers, for which he continually apologized, and seemed quite oblivious of the fact that I was drawing him in profile. Every other moment he would turn full face to me with some remark ending with another apology for his trousers (which reminded me of the first Lord Lytton's, they were so wide at the foot).