Lady Archibald Campbell was an exceedingly handsome woman, and Whistler expressed the desire to paint her portrait. She graciously consented, and the sittings began. In those days Whistler was looked upon in London as little less than a mountebank in art, and one day, putting it as nicely as she could, she said: “My husband wished me to say that he--he appreciated the honor of your inviting me to sit for a portrait, but that--that he did not wish to be understood as committing himself in any way, and the picture must not be considered a commission.” “Dear me, no,” said Whistler, as he painted away; “under no circumstances. Lord Archibald need give himself no uneasiness,--my compensation is in your condescension. We are doing this for the pleasure there is in it.” The portrait was finished, exhibited as “_La Dame au Brodequin Jaune_,”--and duly ridiculed. Lady Campbell’s friends expressed surprise that she should have permitted so eccentric an artist to do so ugly a thing. But time went on; the picture made a profound sensation and won its way. Some time after, Whistler met Lady Campbell in London, and she said to him: “My dear Mr. Whistler, I hear my portrait has been exhibited everywhere and become famous.” “Sh--sh--sh!” with finger on lips. “So it has, my dear Lady Archibald; but every discretion has been observed that Lord Campbell could desire,--your name is not mentioned. The portrait is known as ‘The Yellow Buskin.’” It is now in the Wilstach collection, in Philadelphia. * * * * * Whistler preferred to exhibit his work under conditions which he controlled. As early as 1874 he gave a special exhibition in London, and in the years 1880, 1881, 1883, 1884, and 1886 he exhibited [Illustration] either prints or paintings in the rooms of the Fine Arts Society. He always occupied the place of honor with the International Society at Knightsbridge. Occasionally he would use the galleries of dealers, but not often, and then only upon his own terms. * * * * * While living at Chelsea he had Carlyle as a near neighbor, and of his own notion he painted the portrait that now hangs in Glasgow. These two extraordinary beings were quite congenial. The dogmatic old philosopher, then past seventy-five, sat day after day to the eccentric painter, who was nearly forty years his junior, as patiently as if he were a professional model, and the sittings were long and tedious. One day, as he was leaving, quite exhausted, he met at the door a little girl in white, and he asked her name. “I am Miss Alexander,” she said, primly, “and I am going to have my portrait painted.” The sage shook his head in commiseration, and muttered, as he passed on: “Puir lassie, puir lassie!”