In 1887 the Orchardsons moved from Victoria to Portland Place. The new house offered all the room required for his large family, but there was no studio. Nothing daunted, the artist designed a studio, and made one of the finest _ateliers_ in London, where stables and loose-boxes once stood. He was not the first, for Turner, the great landscape painter, who lived in Queen Anne Street, close by, had his studio in the stables which later adjoined my father’s house in Harley Street. It was in that stable-studio Turner painted some of his finest pictures, and it was in a stable-studio almost a hundred years later that Orchardson painted his most famous canvases. Rich tapestries hung upon the walls. Old chairs of the Directoire and Empire periods stood about on parquet floors, on which was reflected the red glow from a huge, blazing fire. The upstairs rooms, with their pillars and conservatory, formed the background of such pictures as “Her Mother’s Voice,” “Reflections,” “Music, when Soft Voices Die, Vibrates in the Memory,” and “A Tender Chord,” and bits of the studio often served as backgrounds, just as his Adams satin-wood chairs, his clocks and candelabra, glass and old Sheffield plate, stood as models. Orchardson was a man of wide interests. He was always liberal in his outlook. Anything new, no matter by whom, or what form it took, interested him, and he was particularly good to young men. For instance, the son of Professor Lorimer, of Edinburgh, sent a portrait of his father to the Academy. No one had then heard of young Lorimer, but the picture was accepted and hung on the line. Two or three years after, when the artist was in London, he was introduced to Orchardson, who at once exclaimed: “‘J. H. Lorimer’! Ah, yes! I remember. I hung a picture of yours on the line at the Academy a few years ago, because it showed promise.” And thus began a delightful friendship. That was his way. Whenever he could do a young artist a good turn, he did so; whenever he could say a word of encouragement, he was always willing; endless were the visits he paid to the studios of youthful aspirants, and many the kindly words of advice and encouragement he left behind. He thought it one of the crying shames of the day that more was not done for living painters and sculptors. He considered our public buildings and open spaces should be adorned by sculpture, that our public libraries and edifices should be decorated by paintings. “There is just as good talent as ever there was,” he would say, “if these millionaires would only encourage it, and not pay vast sums for spurious old masters. You have only to call a thing _old_, and it will be bought, but call the same thing _new_, and no one will even look at it.” Speaking to him once about a fellow-artist’s death, I said what a pity it was a man should live to over-paint himself, just as men lived to over-write themselves—paint until their eye has lost all idea of form and colour.