Whistler was of the choice few who would never speak seriously of his serious pursuits in general conversation. At those very moments when he seemed to be saying most about art and artists he was in reality saying least of what he really thought. When he talked most of himself he said nothing that he really felt. It was almost impossible to draw from him a serious opinion concerning a picture or a painter. Though he might rail by the hour against this man or that, if the mood seized him, it all meant nothing. In his studio, when at work, opinions and appreciations worth remembering would drop from his lips; but he rarely committed himself; not because his convictions were not clear, but because he seldom thought it worth while. * * * * * Once he was dining with quite a distinguished company. The conversation--possibly as tribute to the presence of so noted an artist--turned upon art, and finally upon a notorious picture, called “Nana,” of a naked woman on a couch, that was quite a sensation in London. It has been seen on this side. Loud were the expressions of approval. Whistler remained silent. “What do you think of ‘Nana,’ Mr. Whistler?” asked the distinguished lady at his right. “Is it not wonderful?--so life-like,” exclaimed the distinguished lady at his left. But Whistler, apparently spellbound by the bird before him, was silent. “But, Mr. Whistler, you have not told us what _you_ think about ‘Nana,’” said the distinguished lady opposite. At bay at last, he said: “Really, madam, you know, it is quite--presumptious--quite, for one who--who is simply, as one might say, a painter, and therefore--you know--not entitled to opinions--to express himself in the presence of so--so many distinguished connoisseurs; but--since you demand my opinion--as a highwayman would a purse--I yield to superior strength and say--with all deference--that ‘Nana’ is--trash.” “Oh!” “Oh, Mr. Whistler.” “But have you seen it?” “No.” “Then, how can you say it is trash?” “It must be--it--is so--popular.” “Will you go to see it?” “That is not necessary.” “But I want you to go with me to-morrow to see ‘Nana.’” And the charming lady on his right insisted so imperiously that he should go with her and several of the company who wished to be of the party, that he yielded, saying, however: “On one condition.” “What is it?” “That you will go with me afterward, to the National Gallery and see some pictures I am sure you have never seen.” “Some new ones?” “To you--yes.” It was agreed; and the following day Whistler with several of the party paid each a shilling to see “Nana” stretched at ease under a strong light at the far end of a dark room. It might have been a painting or “Nana” herself, the realism was so gross.