Some one once gave him an American umbrella,--one of those that when rolled tightly are as small as walking-sticks. He was delighted with it, and used it as a cane. One day, coming out of the studio with a friend, and while hurrying to the cab-stand a few blocks away, it began to drizzle, and his friend, who had no umbrella, said: “Hurry and put up your umbrella or we’ll get our hats wet.” He fumbled a second at the umbrella, then hurried on. “But I would get my umbrella wet.” * * * * * It was commonly said Whistler was unapproachable. In his studio, when at work, yes; in his home, no. A note of introduction from any approved correspondent would almost invariably bring a favorable response. But not every correspondent was approved; or if so at one time, did not necessarily remain so indefinitely, and a note from the wrong--perhaps wronged--source was no commendation at all. On the whole, a frank application from a stranger for permission to call was quite as likely as not to prove successful, such a note in itself being a tribute. But at the studio it was very different. He had no reception-days or hours, as many painters have. He had no use for the social rabble in his workshop. One warm afternoon, when hard at work, the bell rang. Brush in hand, he went to the outer door at the head of the six flights of steep, slippery oak stairs, and found there Mr. C----, whom he knew,--a man who had little to do but bother others,--and Lady D----, a distinguished and clever woman, both out of breath from their long climb. “Ah! my dear Mr. Whistler,” drawled C----, “I have taken the liberty of bringing Lady D---- to see you. I knew you would be delighted.” “Delighted! I’m sure; quite beyond expression; but,”--mysteriously, and holding the door so as to bar their entrance,--“my dear Lady D----, I would never forgive our friend for bringing you up six flights of stairs on so hot a day to visit a studio at one of those--eh--pagan moments when”--and he glanced furtively behind him and still further closed the door--“it is absolutely impossible for a lady to be received. Upon my soul, I should never forgive him.” And the lady looked daggers at her confused cavalier, as Whistler bowed them down the six flights of oaken stairs and returned to resume work on the portrait of a very sedate old gentleman, who had taken advantage of the interruption to break for a moment the rigor of his pose. In those days and for many years the Paris studio was at No. 86 Notre Dame des Champs. Whistler said one day, “Only the French have any taste in the naming of streets.”