the audacity to send for the great throat specialist, Mackenzie. Sir
Morell, when he saw that he had been called to treat a dog, didn't
like it much, it was plain. But he said nothing. He prescribed,
pocketed a big fee, and drove away. The next day he sent posthaste for
Whistler. And Whistler, thinking he was summoned on some matter
connected with his beloved dog, dropped his work and rushed like the
wind to Mackenzie's. On his arrival Sir Morell said, gravely: "How do
you do, Mr. Whistler? I wanted to see you about having my front door
painted."

* * * * *

Whistler used to tell this story about Dante Gabriel Rossetti in his
later years. The great Pre-Raphaelite had invited the painter of
nocturnes and harmonies to dine with him at his house in Chelsea, and
when Whistler arrived he was shown into a reception-room. Seating
himself, he was soon disturbed by a noise which appeared to be made by
a rat or a mouse in the wainscoting of the room. This surmise was
wrong, as he found the noise was in the center of the apartment.
Stooping, to his amazement he saw Rossetti lying at full length under
the table.

"Why, what on earth are you doing there, Rossetti?" exclaimed
Whistler.

"Don't speak to me! Don't speak to me!" cried Rossetti. "That fool
Morris"--meaning the famous William--"has sent to say he can't dine
here to-night, and I'm so mad I'm gnawing the leg of the table."

* * * * *