“Nor would portraits of military figures showing their gentle side,” suggested Domenica.

“No, that might not help one’s defence posture,” agreed Angus. He paused. “I painted George Robertson once, you know. It was while he was Secretary General of NATO.”

“Did you make him look resolute?” asked Domenica.

“Reasonably so,” said Angus. “But he looked fairly resolute anyway. He came out of it very well. I got on very well with him. He has a sense of humour, you see. And he’s a great man. He comes from Islay, you know, and that’s an island that always produces good men and good whisky.”

“Not a portrait to scare NATO’s enemies?”

“My portraits don’t scare anybody,” said Angus. “Mind you, I did once, years ago, do a little picture of Margaret Thatcher – bless her – a tiny little miniature. Then I pasted it onto a matchbox.”

Domenica looked puzzled. “Oh?”

Angus smiled. “Yes. Then I stood the matchbox outside a mouse hole. The mouse had been bothering me – he had gnawed away at some canvas I had. So I used it as a mouse-scarer. It was more humane than a mouse-trap, you see. The mouse came out and saw this picture of Margaret Thatcher staring at him and he ran straight back into the hole. It was very effective.”

“Did she scare us that much?” asked Domenica, trying to remember.

“Yes,” said Angus. “She scared everybody. She was nanny, you see. She was a stern nanny who marched into the nursery and read the Riot Act. She told us to tidy up our rooms, that’s what she did.”

“I suppose she did,” mused Domenica. “But did people listen?”

“At first they didn’t,” said Angus. “But then they realised how strict she was. Nanny had a hairbrush and she whacked people with it. The miners. The Argentines. The railways. The universities. Whack, whack!”

Domenica remembered. Yes, there had been a great deal of chastisement, and not everybody had enjoyed it. “Didn’t Oxford refuse her an honorary degree?”