* * * * *
"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."
* * * * *