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have probably refused me the very cheerful, clean and convenient room which for the present, is my place of rest after work, and refuge from the many at all times.

I spend my time in visiting with acquaintances: in seeing interesting things in museums, private collections and shops; and, daily, I go for an hour or two to Mr. Whistler, who poor old man! has recently had another spell of serious illness, and is now confined to his home.

He is very weak and sees only his family and doctor, as a rule, but if I fail to appear he wires me come, and I go.

It is pathetic to witness his illness, but [[strikethrough]] noble [[/strikethrough]] ennobling to see his affection for his own beautiful art, in the midst of which he sits in an invalids chair and communes.

He is one of the rare few who has made his own little world in which to die [[strikethrough]] [[/strikethrough]]. And if he is now slowly going, which I fear is the case, the triumph of his life at its close is complete.

Beauty is his only master and to it alone he bows!