“My dear Mrs. Fontaine,” said he, “what tongue could be so malicious as to speak evil of you?” “There are thousands in this gossipy world. Our little friendship and _camaraderie_ of the last fortnight—sweetness and innocence itself—who knows what misinterpretation slanderers might put on it?” Quixtus flushed, and drew his gaunt body to its full height. “I’m not pugilistic by habit,” said he, “but if any man made such an insinuation, I should knock him down.” “It would be more likely a woman.” “Then,” said he, “I think I could manage to convey to her, without brutality, that she was a disgrace to her sex.” She fluttered a glance at him. “I should like to have you always as a champion.” “If I understand the word gentleman aright,” said Quixtus, “he is always the champion of the unprotected woman.” His tone assured her that this Early-Victorian sentiment was not mere gallantry. He meant it, indignant still at the idea of misconstruction of their friendship. “I happen to be a woman,” she said, “and seek the particular rather than the general. I said _my_ champion, Dr. Quixtus. Now don’t say that the greater includes the less, or I shall fall through the floor.” He was too much in earnest to smile with her in her coquetry. “Mrs. Fontaine,” said he, with a bow, “no one will ever dare speak evil of you in my presence.” She rose—they were sitting in the lounge. “Thank you,” she said, falling in with his earnest mood. “Thank you. I shall go back to London with a light heart.” And like a wise woman, she cut short the conversation, and went upstairs to dress for dinner. CHAPTER XXI July brought in halcyon days for everybody.