Upon my return from America I found the Whistlers established at Number 21 Cheyne Walk a few steps from my own door. It was not Whistler's good fortune to live long in any house, at any rate in those years. He had two years, or something less, at Tower House, and something less, I think, at Cheyne Walk, and, in April or May, 1892, he removed to Paris. After that I saw him but seldom, for my wanderings upon the face of the planet were to increase and multiply. But during the '88-'92 period he was often in my home. It was his peculiarity and privilege not to come when he was asked, or expected, but invariably to arrive as a sudden gift from the gods, and for the most part {162} he chose the Sunday-evening "Smoke Talks" rather than the suppers, because at the latter he would be more likely to encounter some of "the Serious Ones of this Earth", already "carefully exasperated", in which case he would be bored, while at the former he would be sure to meet the choicest talkers at a late hour. He would drop in at eleven, or at midnight, and stay till two in the morning with half a dozen congenial beings who would not only relish his wit, but sparkle with their own, and who were capable of appreciating him as an artist without requiring explanatory charts and diagrams. One such evening we had been talking of Carlyle, who had lived around the corner in Cheyne Row. Whistler told some pleasant anecdote of him. "There!" exclaimed Theodore Wores, a disciple of Whistler's, "I always thought Carlyle was not so black as he 's painted." Whistler sprang to his feet, and falling back in mock horror, cried, as he stared at Wores, "_Et tu, Brute?_" The room shook with laughter. On another occasion a well-known critic was laying down the law about somebody's "technique." He appealed to Whistler for confirmation. "My dear fellow," said Whistler, "that's an opinion one would wish to express _diffidently_." Among his hearers was an artist accustomed to illustrate in Punch some of the "Things one would wish to express differently." You know what Whistler said to the Prince of Wales (afterwards Edward VII) at an Exhibition {163} of the Royal Society of British Artists. Whistler, recently elected president, was showing the Prince around the galleries. "What is the history of your Society?" asked the Prince. "It has none, Sir; its history begins to-day," was the quick reply. It fitted like a glove. There were sleepy years behind; and anything you like later. Whistler stirred up the pools of somnolence. He did not stir them long, for the British artists of those days, whether or not they were interested in art, preferred Britons for presidents. I daresay they were right.