“Whistler? Whistler?” put in Uncle Dudley. “Why, surely he’s not new. Why—I remember—he was mixed up in a law-suit, wasn’t it, years ago?”
“O no, Dudley,” responded Mrs Albert; “I was under that same impression, till Lady Wallaby set me right. It seems that was another man altogether—some foreign adventurer who pretended to be able to paint and imposed upon people—don’t you recall how The Tarradiddle exposed him?—and Mr Burnt-Jones had him arrested, or something—O, quite a dreadful person. But this Mr Whistler is an Englishman. I read in The Illustrated London News that he represented modern British Art. That alone would make it quite clear it was a different man. I did so want to see him! Lady-Wallaby tells me she has heard he is extremely amusing in his conversation—and quite presentable manners, too.”
“Why don’t you ask him to dinner?” said Mr Albert Grundy. “If he’s amusing it’s more than most of the men you drum up are.”
“You seem to think everybody can be asked to dinner, Albert,” the lady of the house replied. “Artists don’t dine—unless they are in the Academy, of course. Tea, yes—or perhaps supper; but one doesn’t ask people to meet them at dinner. It’s like actors—and—and non-commissioned officers.”
Affording a Novel and Subdued Scientific Light, by which divers Venerable Problems may be Observed Afresh
It is my opinion,” said Uncle Dudley, stretching out his slippered feet, and thrusting his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat—“it is my opinion that women are different from men.”
“Several commentators have advanced this view,” I replied. “For example, it has been noted that the gentle sex cross a muddy street on their heels, whereas we skip over on our toes.”
“That is interesting if true,” responded Uncle Dudley. “What I mean is that all this talk about the human race is humbug. There are two human races! And they are getting wider apart every few minutes, too!”