Whistler had a French poodle of which he was extravagantly fond. This
poodle was seized with an affection of the throat, and Whistler had
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."

* * * * *

One of the affectations of Whistler was his apparent failure to
recognize persons with whom he had been on the most friendly terms. An
American artist once met the impressionist in Venice, where they spent
several months together painting, and he was invited to call on
Whistler if he should go to Paris. The painter remembered the
invitation. The door of the Paris studio was opened by Whistler
himself. A cold stare was the only reply to the visitor's effusive
greeting.

"Why, Mr. Whistler," cried the painter, "you surely haven't forgotten
those days in Venice when you borrowed my colors and we painted
together!"

"I never saw you before in all my life," replied Whistler, and slammed
the door.

This habit of forgetting persons, or pretending to do so, for nobody
ever knew when the lapses of recognition were due to intention or
absent