in your coat."

* * * * *

"Do you think genius is hereditary?" asked an admiring lady one day.

"I can't tell you, madam," Whistler replied. "Heaven has granted me no
offspring."

* * * * *

Whistler once took Horne, his framer, to look at one of his paintings
at the exhibition.

"Well, Horne," he asked, "what do you think of it?"

"Think of it?" he cried, enthusiastically. "Why, sir, it's
perfect--perfect. Mr. ---- has got one just like it."

"What!" said the puzzled Whistler. "A picture like this?"

"Oh," said Horne, "I wasn't talking about the picture; I was talking
about the frame."

* * * * *

"Well, Mr. Whistler, how are you getting on?" said an undesirable
acquaintance in a Paris restaurant.

"I'm not," said Whistler, emptying his glass. "I'm getting off."