“Look at it!  Look at it!” Agg insisted.  “I’ve read the book myself.  Poor Marguerite had to go through the proofs, so that she could be sure of getting the spirit of the binding right.  Do you know why he wrote it?  He hates his wife—­that’s why.  His wife isn’t a womanly woman, and he’s put all his hatred of her into this immortal rubbish.  Read this great work, and you will be made to see what fine, noble creatures we men are”—­she strode to and fro—­“and how a woman’s first duty is to recognize her inferiority to us, and be womanly....  Damme!...  As soon as I saw what poor Marguerite had to do I told her I should either have to go out and kill some one, or produce an antidote.  And then it occurred to me to tell the truth about one of the leading popular heroes of history.”  She bowed in the direction of the canvas.  “I began to feel better at once.  I got the costume from a friend of the learned Sam’s, and I’ve ruined it....  I’m feeling quite bright to-night.”

She gazed at George with her cold blue eyes, arraigning in his person the whole sex which she thought she despised but which her deepest instinct it was to counterfeit.  George, while admiring, was a little dismayed.  She was sarcastic.  She had brains and knowledge and ideas.  There was an intellectual foundation to her picture.  And she could paint—­like a witch!  Oh!  She was ruthlessly clever!  Well, he did not like her.  What he wanted, though he would not admit it, was old Onway’s womanly woman.  And especially in that hour he wanted the womanly woman.

“What’s Marguerite up to?” he asked quietly.

“After the heat and the toil of the day she’s beautifying herself for your august approval,” said Agg icily.  “I expect she’s hurrying all she can.  But naturally you expect her to be in a permanent state of waiting for you—­fresh out of the cotton-wool.”

The next instant Marguerite appeared from the cubicle or dressing-room which had been contrived in a corner of the studio to the left of the door.  She was in her plain, everyday attire, but she had obviously just washed, and her smooth hair shone from the brush.

“Well, George.”

“Well, Marguerite.”

Both spoke casually.  Celia Agg was the only person in the world privy to their engagement; but they permitted themselves no freedoms in front of her.  As Marguerite came near to George, she delicately touched his arm—­nothing more.  She was smiling happily, but as soon as she looked close at his face under the lamp, her face changed completely.  He thought:  “She understands there’s something up.”

She said, not without embarrassment: 

“George, I really must have some fresh air.  I haven’t had a breath all day.  Is it raining?”

“No.  Would you like to go for a walk?”

“Oh!  I should!”