“I am a fidget,” he said, “and it worries me to keep still. When Charlie [his son] asked me to sit to him in the autumn of ’98, I said, ‘My dear boy, I would rather do anything else in the world for you.’ However, his mother persuaded me that it would be to Charlie’s advantage, and therefore, like a weak man—for man is always weak in the hands of woman—I gave in. The boy painted it very cleverly, and people tell me it is a good portrait. Not that I know much about that, for no one knows what he really looks like.” Orchardson was just twenty-nine when sitting in his little studio in Edinburgh he read long accounts of the great Exhibition of 1862. “By Jove, I’ll go and have a look at it,” he exclaimed. No sooner said than done. With a small hand-bag he came to London. The die was cast. He never returned to Edinburgh to live. Those early days in this great city were days of work and struggle for John Pettie, Peter Graham, John MacWhirter, and William Quiller Orchardson, who all came together, and lived together in Pimlico, and then in Fitzroy Square. They all worked in black and white to keep the pot boiling, and right merry they were in those long-ago days. All attained success. Orchardson’s first stroke of luck came three years after his arrival in London, when he won a £100 prize for “The Challenge,” and for the next forty-five years he continued to work steadily, and climbed the ladder of fame rung by rung. My last personal recollection of Sir William was when I was sitting to Herbert Hampton, the sculptor. One day we were talking about Orchardson, and Mr. Hampton was eulogistic in speaking of his work, and regretted Sir William had never been to his studio. “I will ask him to come.” Below is his reply, written on March 12th, 1910, exactly a month before his death. “DEAR MRS. TWEEDIE, “So sorry to be all day engaged! Give me another day—do—Yours ever so much, “W. Q. ORCHARDSON. “Have sitter waiting.” It was his habit to go out daily for fresh air, and, when able for it, for exercise, so I suggested fetching him in a taxi the next time I was to sit. To this he replied a few days later: “DEAR MRS. TWEEDIE, “So do I [this refers to a remark that I wished I were the sitter]. I should have loved the taxi, and your presentment at the hands of Herbert Hampton. It must be worth seeing—but that I have promised to be at the meeting to-morrow of the Fine Art Section of the White City, of which I am Chairman.—Horrid, is it not? With many thanks and more regrets, “Yours, “W. Q. ORCHARDSON.”