Loud were the expressions of approval. Whistler remained silent.
“What do you think of ‘Nana,’ Mr. Whistler?” asked the distinguished lady at his right.
“Is it not wonderful?—so life-like,” exclaimed the distinguished lady at his left.
But Whistler, apparently spellbound by the bird before him, was silent.
“But, Mr. Whistler, you have not told us what you think about ‘Nana,’” said the distinguished lady opposite.
At bay at last, he said:
“Really, madam, you know, it is quite—presumptious—quite, for one who—who is simply, as one might say, a painter, and therefore—you know—not entitled to opinions—to express himself in the presence of so—so many distinguished connoisseurs; but—since you demand my opinion—as a highwayman would a purse—I yield to superior strength and say—with all deference—that ‘Nana’ is—trash.”
“Oh!”
“Oh, Mr. Whistler.”
“But have you seen it?”