d 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.

"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 fr