him in want. He pawned his portrait of his mother, by many considered
the best of his productions.

Miss Marion Peck, a niece of Ferdinand Peck, United States
Commissioner to the Paris Exposition, wanted her portrait done by
Whistler. She sat for him nineteen times. Further, she requested, as
the picture was nearing completion, that extra pains be taken with its
finishing. Also, she inquired if it could, without danger of injury,
be shipped.

"Why?" asked Whistler.

"Because I wish to send it to my home in Chicago," explained Miss
Peck.

Whistler threw down his brush, overturned the easel, and ran around
the studio like a madman. "What!" he shrieked. "Send a Whistler to
Chicago! Allow one of my paintings to enter Hog Town! Never!"

Miss Peck didn't get the painting.

* * * * *

Once he met what seemed to be a crushing retort. He had scornfully
called Balaam's ass the first great critic, and the inference was
plain until a writer in _Vanity Fair_ called his attention to the fact
that the ass was right.

Whistler acknowledged the point. But the acknowledgment terminates in
a way that is delicious. "I fancy you will admit that this is the only