The writing was very shaky, as it had been for some years. For years he could paint firmly and yet only write badly. This was probably due to his extraordinary power of concentration. Even ten days before his death he was struggling daily to the studio, too weak to stand before his canvas, callous to all outside matters, so determined to finish his pictures that he could concentrate his mind on his work and make great strides in a quarter of an hour. Then he would fall back exhausted. Here was a case of indomitable pluck, and such determination and concentration that he almost died with his brush in his hand. Orchardson was a delightful _raconteur_, and although I knew him intimately for twenty years, I never heard him say an unkind word of anyone, and often admired his refinement of thought and delightful belief in everyone and in everything beautiful. He was by nature a serious, thoughtful man, although a certain air of gaiety overspread his speech, and a merry twinkle often sparkled in his eye. He told stories dramatically, quickly turning from grave to gay. Although casual in manner, unconventional in ideas, and remiss in answering letters, he never seemed to give offence to anyone. That same slack, casual way of acting on impulse that brought young Orchardson to London in 1862, remained through life. He never could make plans; seldom knew from week to week where he would be. He was, in fact, irresponsible by nature, but so sweet in character that the gods smiled on him and oblivion of time was excused, just as forgetfulness of appointments was exonerated. That was the man; but when work was foremost, all was changed. Orchardson was a great painter and a kindly man. The world is the poorer for his death. Such men can ill be spared. When my article appeared it was pleasant to hear from the wife of the painter: “Your article in the _Fortnightly_ is quite delightful, and I much appreciate it. You have depicted his character so exactly, and I am sure all who have ever known him will quite agree.” Or again from his old friend Mr. John MacWhirter, R.A., who followed him so quickly to the grave: “I have just read Orchardson in the _Review_. It is admirable. I did not know that you understood him so well. He was a delightful character, and you have described him well. I feel I owe you real thanks!” These few kindly words were a great reward for a very little work. Poor MacWhirter himself died a few months later. * * * * * Some years ago the Society of Women Journalists did me the honour of appointing me one of its Vice-Presidents, an unmerited honour, for I was a bad journalist in the sense of ordinary journalism. I have never written about fashions or Society functions, and did little of the ordinary journalistic hack-work, such as reporting, though I wrote yards of “copy” of all sorts and kinds.