Within the memory of this portly and admirable pillar of the Church to which the British Empire owes all its greatness, and to which it pays a great deal of its money, were many fierce encounters at Oxford, that haunt of ancient peace and modern progress. "Would you have knocked ’em down?" asked Bob, eagerly. "Certainly," said the bishop. "I would have knocked them as flat as a flounder." And Bob bade him good-bye. "I think he’s a ripping good bishop," said Bob. "I’ll ask Mr. Gordon to help restore the cathedral." He got back to Goring to find Titania no longer suffering from fits. Fits were not equal to the situation. All her friends were writing to her to condole with her on the marriage of Penelope to Timothy Bunting. They came down in droves to condole and to get the latest intelligence, while gamekeepers and grooms were keeping journalists out of the grounds with guns and pitchforks. For the world was absolutely certain that Miss Weekes was right, and Pen’s _ci-devant_ maid was making the salary of a star at the Empire by according interviews to those halfpenny papers which are England’s glory and her hope. The editors endeavoured to interview the lovers, but they were stern and savage. They would not speak to each other and avoided strangers. But it was no secret now that they each claimed to be Lady Penelope’s husband. As the acutest journalist of them all remarked, this was hardly possible. The only theory that held water (or, at least, "good" water, as the Baboo pleader remarked) was the Bunting theory. But if Bunting was the man, where was he? and why this mystery? A journalist solved it, or said he did. Bunting was a very handsome man. There was no doubt of that. But he was an uneducated man. That was quite certain. If a lady of Penelope’s standing married a man of Bunting’s, what would she do? The answer was easy. She would send him to Oxford to acquire the accent and the aplomb and the insolence which have rendered Oxford men the idols of the mob, and have put them into every position where tact with inferior races is a _sine qua non_. This is what the journalist said. He ought to have known, as he had been brought up in the Yorkshire Dissenting College, and dissented from all other codes of manners, except those popular with the non-conformist conscience, which, equally with the Church of England, has made the empire what it is and what it should be. But this journalist knew his market. The eyes of the civilized world once more turned to Oxford. "If it’s Bunting, I’ll kill him," said all the lovers who were not married to Penelope. "She has made a mistake, if it’s true, and he must be got rid of." Now was the time of the Marchioness of Rigsby’s glory. "Did I not tell you she had married her groom?" she demanded of Titania. "Penelope was extremely rude to me. I am almost glad she has married a groom. If he is a nice groom, he may improve her manners."