“Oh!” said Mr. Prince, in a new tone.  “I’ve one or two things that might interest you.”

He displayed some prints, and chatted of his labours.  He was still etching; he would die etching.  This was the etcher of European renown.  He referred to the Vienna acquisition as though it was an affair of a few weeks ago.  He had disposed of an etching to Stockholm, and mentioned that he had exhibited at the International Show in Rome.  He said that his things were attracting attention at a gallery in Bond Street.  He displayed catalogues and press-cuttings.

“These are jolly fine,” said George enthusiastically, as he examined the prints on his knee.

“I’m glad you like them,” said Mr. Prince, pleased.  “I think I’ve improved.”

But in spite of his European renown, Mr. Prince had remained practically unknown.  His name would not call forth the ‘Oh yes!’ of recognition from the earnest frequenter of fashionable exhibitions who takes pride in his familiarity with names.  The etchings of Prince were not subscribed for in advance.  He could not rank with the stars—­Cameron, Muirhead Bone, Legros, Brangwyn.  Probably he could command not more than two or three guineas for a print.  He had never been the subject of a profusely laudatory illustrated article in the Studio.  With his white hair he was what in the mart is esteemed a failure.  He knew it.  Withal he had a notable self-respect and a notable confidence.  There was no timidity in him, even if his cautiousness was excessive.  He possessed sagacity and he had used it.  He knew where he was.  He had something substantial up his sleeve.  There was no wistful appeal in his eye, as of a man who hopes for the best and fears the worst.  He could meet dealers with a firm glance, for throughout life he had subjugated his desires to his resources.  His look was modest but independent; and Marguerite had the same look.

“Hallo!” cried George.  “I see you’ve got that here!” He pointed to Celia Agg’s portrait of herself as Bonnie Prince Charlie.

“Yes,” said Marguerite.  “She insisted on me taking it when she gave up painting.”

“Gave up painting?”

“Very good, isn’t it?” said Mr. Prince gravely.  “Pity she ever did give up painting, I think,” he added in a peculiar tone.

“Yes, it is,” George agreed insincerely, for the painting now seemed to him rather tenth-rate.  “But what on earth did she stop painting for?”

Marguerite replied, with reserve: 

“Oh!  Didn’t you know?  She’s quite gone in for this suffragette business.  No one ever sees her now.  Not even her people.”

“Been in prison,” said Mr. Prince, sardonically disapproving, “I always said she’d end in that kind of thing, didn’t I, Margy?”

“You did, dear,” said Marguerite, with wifely eagerness.