Agg, who had sat down, rose and slowly removed her small hat.  With pins in her mouth she said something about the luggage to Marguerite.

“All right!  All right!” George surrendered gloomily.  In truth he was not sorry to let Marguerite depart solitary.  And Agg’s demeanour was very peculiar; he would have been almost afraid to be too obstinate in denying her request.  He had never seen her hysterical, but a suspicion took him that she might be capable of hysteria....  You never knew, with that kind of girl, he thought sagaciously.

In the darkness of the alley George said to Marguerite, feigning irritation: 

“What on earth does she want?”

“Agg?  Oh!  It’s probably nothing.  She does get excited sometimes, you know.”

The two girls had parted with strange, hard demonstrations of affection from Agg.

“I suppose you’ll write,” said George coldly.

“To-morrow, darling,” she replied quite simply and gravely.

Her kiss was warm, complete, faithful, very loving, very sympathetic.  Nothing in her demeanour as she left him showed that George had received it in a non-committal manner.  Yet she must have noticed his wounded reserve.  He did not like such duplicity.  He would have preferred her to be less miraculously angelic.

When he re-entered the studio, Agg, who very seldom smoked, was puffing violently at a cigarette.  She reclined on one elbow on the settee, her eyes fixed on the portrait of herself.  George was really perturbed by the baffling queerness of the scenes through which he was passing.

“Look here, infant-in-arms,” she began immediately.  “I only wanted to say two words to you about Marguerite.  Can you stand it?”

There was a pause.  George walked in front of her, hiding the easel.

“Yes,” he said gruffly.

“Well, Marguerite’s a magnificent girl.  She’s extraordinarily capable.  You’d think she could look after herself as well as anyone.  But she can’t.  I know her far better than you do.  She needs looking after.  She’ll make a fool of herself if she isn’t handled.”

“How do you mean?”

“You know how I mean.”

“D’you mean about the old man?”

“I mean about the perfectly horrid old man....  Ah!  If I was in your place, if I was a man,” she said passionately, “do you know what I should do with Marguerite?  I should carry her off.  I should run away with her.  I should drag her out of the house, and she should know what a real man was.  I’m not going to discuss her with you.  I’m not going to say any more at all.  I’m off to bed.  But before you go, I do think you might tell me my portrait’s a pretty good thing.”

And she did not say any more.

III