It fairly took my breath away, for I recalled much caustic wit of alleged Whistler origin that I had seen in the public prints, and, feeling the promptings of caution, I exclaimed, “How dare you?” “Because he has invited me,” she replied. It was true, for, a few years before, my friend’s husband, shrewd in the law, and equally daring in his connoisseurship, had paid a large price for a Whistler “Nocturne” of a beauty so characteristic that even amateurs could look at it and wonder what it was all about. This nocturne began its existence in my friend’s home by perpetrating a joke. It had been brought to the house by one of Whistler’s pupils, just from Europe. We two women entered the drawing-room to find it alone in its glory, which did not seem to be dimmed by the fact that it was on the carpet with a Louis Quinze chair for an easel. We gazed in wonderment, from all possible angles, and finally exclaimed that it was “quite Japanese” in style and coloring. Then the reverent pupil entered, kneeled before it, wiped it softly with his silk handkerchief, smiled, and reversed it--for we had been studying the _chef-d’œuvre_ upside down. He withdrew without taking notice of our chagrin. Evidently the joke was too good to keep, for the incident has become one of the stock Whistler anecdotes. Within a year a friend has regaled me with it, without a suspicion of carrying coals to Newcastle. That purchase had given the artist much satisfaction, aside from the lofty price, and he used to write charming letters, asking my friend to visit him in Paris. That same day we went to his studio in the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. Arriving at a forbidding area, with a winding staircase, we looked at each other with feminine indecision. Before we could arrange a retreat, the concierge, who was somewhere near the top, caught sight of us and called down to learn whom we wanted. I made a megaphone of my hand and screamed aloft, “Monsieur Whist-lai-ai-re!” “_Là bas_, on the fifth,” she answered. After a slow ascent, we stood at last on the top steps of the winding staircase. I can still hear the prolonged jingle of the primitive bell my vigorous pull had roused. Before it was stilled, the door opened suddenly, and there stood Whistler, the great Whistler--in his shirt-sleeves! The first impression was of a little, big personage who completely filled the doorway. He appeared much smaller than any idea of personality conveyed by the portraits of him that we had seen. On his left arm he held a large palette, with a bunch of brushes in his hand. All were moist, as were also to some extent his sleeves and clothing, for he was without a painting-apron. But the famous monocle was there, and the whisk of white hair was in the right place. The _signalement_ was complete.