“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.”