Again he made search, and brought before us another picture. This time the oiling and dusting disclosed the portrait of a beautiful American girl, wearing an evening cloak, the collar of which was very high. Such breeding and poise in the picture! It was more than a reproduction: something of the inner woman was there. Over this we allowed ourselves to exclaim in admiration, which moved the master to say: “It took a long time to paint this portrait.” There was a pause, of which my friend took advantage to say that she would much like to have him paint her portrait. “How long shall you be in Paris?” he asked. “Another week.” “There you are! You Americans are all the same; here to-day, gone to-morrow; _à Paris aujourd’hui, demain, à Hoboken_. One might as well try to paint fish jumping out of the water,” he added with his captivating laugh. With this laugh, all the ice that had been accumulating melted away. I found voice to say that I had recognized him immediately the day before from having seen and greatly admired his portrait by a fellow-artist. To my complete discomfiture, he shrugged his shoulders and said: “He _imagines_ that he has painted my portrait.” At last we were having a glimpse of the real Whistler, or, rather, of the one we had heard of and read about. He showed us two more canvases, one by a pupil. Then he drew up to the tea-table and began to discourse on the “Nocturne” which my friend had bought. This led to a recital of his hopes of the budding “Académie Whistler,” which had been formally opened in the autumn of 1898. However, the academy did not remain open long. Nothing in his training or natural gifts gave him the endurance and patience required of a teacher; besides, his health failed, and he went to a milder climate. We dared ask him how he liked being a teacher, to which he answered: “You know what the French call _une bête de somme--un cheval de fiacre--quoi!_” Again he shrugged and sighed. We had brought with us two copies of Nicholson’s caricature of Whistler, in which he is standing at full-length, monocled, against a nocturnal sky. We asked him to sign them, and he was exceedingly gracious about it. “These caricatures were my idea,” he explained; “I told Nicholson how to do them. They are a great success.” On each he sketched a butterfly in pencil, adding on one, “_Tant pis_” and on the other, “With all proper regrets.” He told us that he often became very much attached to his work. Once he had an order from a man for a portrait; it was duly finished, and amply paid for. He still held it, although the man wrote periodically to have it sent to him. “I really feel that it is much too good for him,” he explained. “The worst of it is that the longer I keep it the more I like it, and”--after a pause he whispered--“the less likely he is to get it.”