"And the painter and his bride said 'come.' We are not out of the packing cases yet; but come in. I 've something to show you. You must stay and dine, or I won't show you what it is." And we mounted to his flat. Mrs. Whistler knew that I was accustomed to "Jimmie's" ways, and so she affected no surprise when she met us at the door and learned that I had come to dinner. She merely said, as if it were all in the day's work: "We 've just moved in. Pardon the chairs. Let's make a housewarming of it." It was easy to "pardon the chairs", for there were none to pardon,--in the drawing-room to which I was shown. There were only unpacked packing cases. And I sat on one. Whistler turned on the lights and then darted into another room from which he returned speedily, showing his roguish smile and carrying in his hands a bundle of printer's proofs which he laid beside me on my packing case. Standing over them, screwing his monocle into his eye, he said: "There 's the thing I wanted to show you; my _magnum opus_: 'The Gentle Art of Making Enemies.' Do you mind looking 'em over, with an eye to correction, while you wait? My idea 's a brown paper cover like the 'Ten O'Clock.'" And with that he darted out again, returning immediately with a box of cigars and a case filled with cigarettes. {159} "Burnt offering to the High Gods," he said. "I go to prepare the libations." And he went. Mrs. Whistler, after a few gracious words, went also, presumably to give directions for the table. I was left to myself, the packing cases, the proofs, and the cigars. My watch said seven thirty, and presently seven forty-five, and, on the heels of that, eight o'clock. I was interested, but I was also hungry. But neither of the Whistlers had yet reappeared. Meantime I read on and on, admiring immensely and chuckling every minute or two over the stupidities, the jealousies, the ridiculous follies of mankind as revealed in "The Gentle Art." And it was nine o'clock! Jimmie came in with a fat bundle of newspaper clippings. "Read!" he cried. "Some of these should be included, don't you think so? Hope you are not hungry!" Then he disappeared again. I was too hungry to smoke. There were sounds occasionally from beyond the closed door. Although noncommittal, they were encouraging; they at least indicated human presence and the probability, in an uncertain future, of food. At nine forty-five I had reached the end of the proofs, the press clippings, and almost of patience, when Jimmie came tripping in with pantomimic action which meant abasement and a plea for mercy. Then said he: "I fear the Lord hath made me forgetful of time. But there 's atonement toward. Have you read 'em? Oh, Sheridan, Sheridan Ford, thou naughty {160} one, prepare for doom! Madame, I pray you do the honours." And Mrs. Whistler, who had appeared behind him, enchanted me by saying, "Dinner is served." It was ten o'clock! The Whistlerian hour.