Curiously enough, Quixtus had begun to like the man again. Admitted on a social equality and dressed in reputable garments, Huckaby began to lose the assertiveness of manner mingled with furtive flattery which of late had characterised him. He began to assume an air of self-respect, even of good-breeding. Quixtus noticed with interest the change wrought in him by clothes and environment, and contrasted him favourably with Billiter, whom new and gorgeous raiment had rendered peculiarly offensive. There were times when he could forget the sorry mission which Huckaby had undertaken, and find pleasure in his conversation. Scrupulous sobriety aided the temporary metamorphosis. As he spoke French passably and had retained a considerable amount of scholarship, Quixtus (to his astonishment) found that he could introduce him with a certain pride to his brother anthropologists, as one who would cast no discredit on his country. Huckaby was quick to perceive his patron’s change of attitude, and took pains to maintain it. The novelty, too, of mingling again with clean-living, intellectual and kindly men afforded him a keen pleasure which was worth a week’s abstinence from whisky. Whether it was worth a whole life of respectability and endeavour was another matter. The present sufficed him. He played the scholarly gentleman so well that Quixtus was not surprised, one afternoon, when passing through the great lounge of the Continental, to see a lady rise from a tea-table and greet his companion in the friendliest manner. “Eustace Huckaby, can that possibly be you—or is it your ghost?” Huckaby bowed over the proffered hand. “What an unexpected delight.” “It’s years and years since we met. How many?” “I daren’t count them, for both our sakes,” said Huckaby. “Why have you dropped out of my horizon for all this time?” asked the lady. “_Mea maxima culpa._” He smiled, bowed in the best-bred way in the world, and half turned, so as to bring Quixtus into the group. “May I introduce my friend Dr. Quixtus? Mrs. Fontaine.” The lady smiled sweetly. “You are Dr. Quixtus, the anthropologist?” “I am interested in the subject,” said Quixtus. “More than that. I have read your book; _The Household Arts of the Neolithic Age_.” “An indiscretion of youth,” said Quixtus. “Oh, please don’t tell me it’s all wrong,” cried Mrs. Fontaine, in alarm. “I’m always quoting it. It forms part of my little stock-in-trade of learning.” “Oh, no. It’s not exactly incorrect,” said Quixtus, with a smile, pleased that so pretty a lady should count among his disciples, “but it’s superficial. So much has been discovered since I wrote it.”