"There are three most excellent reasons why I should not fight a duel with Mr. Whistler, as Mr. Whistler well knows. First, only under the very gravest circumstances, if under any at all, would an Englishman accept a challenge to a duel. The duel has been relegated to the realms of comic opera. As for inviting me to proceed to Belgium for the purpose of fighting him, he might as well ask me to strip myself naked and paint my face and stick feathers in my hair—dress myself as a Redskin, in fact, and walk down St. James's Street flourishing a tomahawk. Second, supposing I were a Frenchman, Mr. Whistler is sixty-five years of age, and it is against the custom of dueling for any one to accept a challenge from so old a gentleman. Moreover, Mr. Whistler is, unhappily, very short-sighted, and would be unable to see me at twenty paces. Third, the grounds of the quarrel are so infinitely trivial that, were we both Frenchmen, it is doubtful if any seconds would take upon themselves the responsibility of an armed encounter.
"I have praised Mr. Whistler's pictures that he painted five-and-twenty years ago as much as it is possible to praise works of art. I hold the same opinions about them still. I only wish Mr. Whistler would apply himself to his art instead of wasting his time in quarreling with his friends."
The outcome of the Eden suit kept Whistler in ill-humor for a long time, while Moore continued to be a special object of aversion. The two avoided each other. But, as some philosopher has said, if you remain long in Paris you will meet all your friends and all your enemies. So it fell out that the two foregathered at the same atelier one Sunday afternoon. They nearly collided in entering, but Moore was the first inside. The hostess heard sounds from the hall something between china-breaking and the stamping of hoofs. She went out, to find James in a mighty rage.
"Dear me!" said the lady, "what is the matter, dear master?"
"Whistler won't come in! Whistler won't stay under the same roof with that wild Irishman!"
Moore, in the inside, remarked in his sweetly modulated voice:
"Why drag in Whistler?"
This play on his best mot, "Why drag in Velasquez?" was too much, and in screaming wrath the painter fled, leaving Moore in full possession.
* * * * *
An American millionaire, to whom wealth had come rather quickly from Western mines, called at the Paris studio with the idea of capturing something for his gallery. He glanced casually at the paintings on the walls, and then queried: