He once had an engagement to dine with some distinguished people in a distant part of London. A friend who wished to be on time was waiting for him in the studio. It was growing late, but Whistler kept on painting, more and more absorbed. “My dear fellow,” his friend urged at last, “it is frightfully late, and you have to dine with Lady ----. Don’t you think you’d better stop?” “Stop?” fairly shrieked Whistler. “Stop, when everything is going so beautifully? Go and stuff myself with food when I can paint like this? Never! Never! Besides, they won’t do anything until I get there,--they never do!” An official connected with an international art exhibition was about to visit Paris to consult with the artists. To save time, he sent notes ahead making appointments at his hotel with the different men at different hours. To Whistler he sent a note fixing a day at “4.30 precisely,” whereupon Whistler regretfully replied: “DEAR SIR: I have received your letter announcing that you will arrive in Paris on the--th. I congratulate you. I never have been able, and never shall be able, to be anywhere at ‘4.30 precisely.’ “Yours most faithfully, “J. MCN. WHISTLER.” To the stereotyped inquiry of the sitter: “About how many sittings do you require, Mr. Whistler?” “Dear me, how can I tell? Perhaps one, perhaps--more.” “But--can’t you give me some idea, so I can arrange----” “Bless me, but you must not permit the doing of so trivial a thing as a portrait to interfere with the important affairs of life. We will just paint in those odd moments when you have nothing better to do.” “Suppose I am compelled to leave the city before it is finished?” “You will return next summer, and we will resume where we left off, as the continued-story-teller says.” And no amount of persuasion could get him to say when he expected to finish a work. He would frequently say: “We will just go ahead as if there were one long holiday before us, without thinking of the end, and some day, when we least expect it, the picture is finished; but if we keep thinking of the hours instead of the work, it may never come to an end.” This indifference to time kept him young--to the very last. He persistently refused to note the flight of years. There was once a very old Indian, how old no one knew, in Northern Michigan who, when asked his age by the pertinaciously curious, always replied, “I do not count the years; white people do--and die.” * * * * * His father went to Lowell, Massachusetts, in 1834 to take charge of the construction of the canals and locks. He resided in a house on Worthen Street, and there Whistler was born on July 10.