One day I went out of the club with Stanny—or rather, I rushed out—he did not _go_ out of anything, but ran and slammed the doors—when we came across a professional beggar who was well known to both of us as always being just a “quarter” shy of the fare he needed to get to New Rochelle. He had probably been on his way to New Rochelle for the last twenty years. Stanny, as was his custom, grabbed a handful of silver from his pocket and thrust it into the astonished beggar’s hand in an embarrassed way. I said: “I suppose you know that you are not really doing him any good. They say he is rich.” “Oh,” he answered, “you don’t understand. Do you suppose I was trying to do him good? I was only trying to justify my own existence.” Of the most impetuous, impulsive, lovable nature, with him to think was to act. I once tried to chaff him about the way his child was being brought up. My boys, about the age of his, were always out in Gramercy Park. They had said: “We are always together unless it rains, but if Larry White gets his feet wet, the nurse makes an awful fuss and takes him home. And she never lets him go on the grass.” I told his father. There was a roar and a bang, and Stanford was gone out of the door. In a few minutes he was back, saying: “He’ll play with your boys to-morrow.” “What did you do, scold the nurse?” I asked. “No; I fired her.” Stanford White was a real artist, one of the kind that could no more help doing beautiful things than he could help living. Practically a boy when he did it, I saw a frame in his home that he had carved for Mrs. White during their engagement. It was a most delicate and complicated pattern—I have the impression that it was of flowers and figures—but it gave the effect of one of those Chinese openwork ivory carvings, and formed the most exquisite setting for a small portrait by Thomas Dewing, something that Meissonier could never have done, as he had not Dewing’s sense of beauty.