“Now,” he said, “that palette is fit to paint with, and so ends your first lesson. Study it, and paint only with those colours until you see me again.” Before the day was finished every girl had arranged her palette according to the plan, and the men in the other room likewise followed suit. When the artist paid his next visit to the studio, he found the palette he had himself prepared fixed upon the wall and immortalised with a wreath, while underneath was a label announcing, “This palette has been arranged according to the regulation of James Whistler, the artist.” Whistler’s marriage was the strangest affair in the world, for he was probably about sixty at the time, and his bride, Mrs. Godwin, a widow, although a pretty woman, was by no means young. Yet the romance and enthusiasm they developed were delightful, and during the ten years or so of his married life Whistler became infinitely more human and contented in every way. They were very happy; indeed, his tender solicitude for his wife’s welfare on every occasion, and his anxiety and concern during her long illness, were a revelation to those who only thought of Whistler as a quarrelsome egoist wrapped entirely in himself. Hidden away, he had a kind heart, although he chose generally to conceal it. His wife’s loss was the tragedy of his existence, and he was never the same man afterwards. Henry Labouchere wrote: “So my old friend Jemmy Whistler is dead. I first knew him in 1854 at Washington. He had not then developed into a painter, but was a young man who had recently left the West Point Military College, and was considering what next he should do. He was fond of balls, but he had not a dress-coat, so he attended them in a frock-coat, the skirts of which were turned back to simulate an evening-coat. “I believe that I was responsible for his marriage to the widow of Mr. Godwin, the architect. She was a remarkably pretty woman and very agreeable, and both she and he were thorough Bohemians. I was dining with them and some others one evening at Earl’s Court. They were obviously greatly attracted to each other, and in a vague sort of way they thought of marrying. So I took the matter in hand to bring things to a practical point. ‘Jemmy,’ I said, ‘will you marry Mrs. Godwin?’ ‘Certainly,’ he replied. ‘Mrs. Godwin,’ I said, ‘will you marry Jemmy?’ ‘Certainly,’ she replied. ‘When?’ I asked. ‘Oh, some day,’ said Whistler. ‘That won’t do,’ I said; ‘we must have a date.’ So they both agreed that I should choose the day, tell them what church to come to for the ceremony, provide a clergyman, and give the bride away. I fixed an early date, and got the then Chaplain of the House of Commons to perform the ceremony. It took place a few days later.