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Moore clucked his tongue. “And this was the man who as a boy proclaimed the genius of Turner when everyone else accused the man’s sea-scapes of looking like soap-suds!” He shook his head and rapped out the contents of his meerschaum into the ash-tray. Boehm’s response was more measured. “His is the greatest voice in art criticism, not only here, but the world,” he said. But he too shook his head. “It is some gibe.” “He’s hopeless,” answered Whistler. “The enemy of art today is convention, and Ruskin’s blathering only confirms the narrowness of his conceptions. He knows nothing. Once again the cause of us doers and workers is at stake against the mere writers and praters. Mine is modern painting. It doesn’t ‘mean anything’ nor does it intend to entertain or scold the viewer in ‘relating a story’. I seek to convey an atmosphere, nothing else.” They had all heard this before. Boughton still stood, now with pursed lips, above his friend, and looked down at Whistler’s grin. “I believe this to be actionable.” Whistler blinked. His single lock of white hair stood out from his dark curls like a tongue of Pentecostal fire. “I’m a painter and no solicitor, you’ll have to obtain a professional consultation–ask Rose or any other good man–but this”–here Boughton waved the offending number of Fors– “this, coming from such a one as Ruskin, this might be libel.” “Libel?” “Yes, and if it hinders your sales or in any way injures your reputation, it might be actionable.” “With a settlement?” “Yes, should you win; a settlement, damages, court costs, everything.” Whistler’s eyes, which had been glued to Boughton’s face during this startling allegation, now dropped to the floral tracery of the maroon carpet. He hadn’t sold a major painting in two years, and was far from having the resources to embark upon the Venetian trip which he hoped would result in a series of always-lucrative etchings. His greatest client and patron, Frederick Leyland, was now sending him bills for materials and incurred expenses in the unauthorised (so said Leyland) decoration of his fantastic Peacock Room. Leyland, once so warm a friend, was so enraged he had threatened to publicly horsewhip Whistler should they meet. The building of Whistler’s new home and studio in Chelsea, which he had rashly pursued despite his financial difficulties, was straining him even further. And he feared that Maud Franklin, his long time model and mistress, was again with child.