To the Ancasters succeeded Count Zinzendorf, chief of the Herrenhuters, whose burial-ground was at the back where the Moravian preacher’s pulpit was not so very long ago still to be seen—indeed perhaps it may be there yet. After that the glory of the great house departed. It was divided into five and was known as Lindsey Row. In the first of these in 1874 lived Whistler, in the next, which had once been owned by Martin the painter, the illustrator of Milton, dwelt a Mr. Boggett, a great grower of chrysanthemums; then came Mr. Nassau Senior, who married the beautiful and charming sister of Tom Hughes (“Tom Brown’s School-days”), and the last two were empty. Those two I bought and threw into one with the help of Mr. Devey the architect. And here we lived for many happy years. If in London the last person with whom you are likely to make acquaintance is the man who is living next door to you, in Chelsea it was quite different; we were very neighbourly; the Nassau Seniors were most friendly—she, unfortunately a great invalid, hardly leaving her sofa, but always a ray of sunshine, brightening all the lives with which she came in contact; as for Whistler, he was perpetually in and out of our house, and always welcome for the spirit of fun and devilry which he brought with him. He would come in of a morning with a whole budget of papers, letters, of which many were afterwards published in “The Gentle Art of Making Enemies,” which he would read out to us, exploding with laughter over his own witticisms. It was generally at some “art patron” that he loved to gird—the owner of the famous blue room being a favourite victim. There was one batch of correspondence, however, which was never made public—with eating appetite had come, and in these letters Whistler had fed himself to bursting-point. The law of libel stopped even his mouth, and only a very small number of friends was allowed to listen to those masterpieces of demoniacal satire. It was an unfortunate thing for art that during his life-time—except so far as his etchings were concerned—Whistler’s genius was not recognized. The result was that many of his finest paintings were destroyed. His financial difficulties were no secret.