“Who did that?”

“I did, of course,” said Agg.  She pointed to the large mirror at the opposite side of the studio.

“The dickens you did!” George murmured, struck.  But now that he knew the sketch to be the work of a woman he at once became more critical, perceiving in it imitative instead of original qualities.  “What is it?  I mean, what’s the idea at the back of it, if it isn’t a rude question, Agg?”

“Title:  ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie,’” said Agg, without a smile.  She was walking about, in a convincingly masculine style.  Unfortunately she could not put her hands in her pockets, as the costume was without pockets.

“Is that your notion of the gent?”

“Didn’t you know I’m supposed to be very like him?” cried Agg, vain.  The stern creature had frailties.  Then she smiled grimly.  “Look at my cold blue eyes, my sharp chin, my curly-curly lips, my broad forehead, my clear complexion.  And I hope I’m thin enough.  Look!” She picked up the bag wig, which was lying on a chair, and put it on, and posed.  The pose was effective.

“You seem to know a lot about this Charlie.”

“Well, our well-beloved brother Sam is writing a monograph on him, you see.  Besides, every one——­”

“But what’s the idea?  What’s the scheme?  Why is he drunk?”

“He always was drunk.  He was a confirmed drunkard at thirty.  Both his fair ladies had to leave him because he was just a violent brute.  And so on and so on.  I thought it was about time Charlie was shown up in his true colours.  And I’m doing it!...  After all the sugar-stick Academy pictures of him, my picture will administer a much-needed tonic to our dear public.  I expect I can get it into next year’s New English Art Club, and if I do it will be the sensation of the show....  I haven’t done with it yet.  In fact I only started yesterday.  There’s going to be a lot more realism in it.  All those silly Jacobite societies will furiously rage together....  And it’s a bit of pretty good painting, you know.”

“It is,” George agreed.  “But it’s a wild scheme.”

“Not so wild as you think, my minstrel boy.  It’s very, much needed.  It’s symbolic, that picture is.  It’s a symbolic antidote.  Shall I tell you what put me on to it?  Look here.”

She led him to Marguerite’s special work-table, under the curtained window.  There, on a sheet of paper stretched upon a drawing-board, was the finished design which Marguerite had been labouring at for two days.  It was a design for a bookbinding, and the title of the book was, The Womanly Woman, and the author of the book was Sir Amurath Onway, M.D., D.Sc., F.R.S., a famous specialist in pathology.  Marguerite, under instruction from the bookbinders, had drawn a sweet picture, in quiet colours, of a womanly woman in a tea-gown, sitting in a cosy corner of a boudoir.  The volume was destined to open the spring season of a publishing firm of immense and historic respectability.