She was in one of her drawing rooms—­the one that was decorated with water colors set in fluted panels of yellow silk—­not the one with the pink blinds so beloved by those of her visitors who had reached an age to regard a pink light as a woman’s best friend.  She was wearing a new gown which Phyllis, in spite of her enthusiasm on behalf of a brave man maligned, found admirable both as regards fabric, fit, and fashion.

Then followed a word or two of commendation of the artists who had been concerned in its production.  They had not been absurd about the sleeves, and they had not vetoed the sweep of lace—­it was about half a yard wide—­which the person who occupied so insignificant a position as is usually allocated to the mere wearer of the gown had suggested for the bodice.  The gown was an unequivocal success, and had Ella seen the disgraceful article which had appeared in the Spiritual Aneroid on the subject of Mr. Courtland’s explorations?

Ella smiled a slow smile, as the question joined the congratulation without the lapse of a breath.

“The Spiritual Aneroid?  Who is the Spiritual Aneroid?  What is the Spiritual Aneroid?” she asked.  “Oh, a newspaper.  What could a newspaper with such a funny name have to say about Mr. Courtland?”

“I have brought it with me,” said Phyllis.  “It is quite disgraceful.  I’m sure you’ll agree with me.”

“I’m certain of it.”

Ella accepted the proffered paper and glanced down the article pointed out to her by Phyllis.  Phyllis’ eyes were gleaming as she placed her finger on the words, “Dynamite versus Evangelization,” but Ella’s eyes did not gleam while she was reading all the words printed beneath the heading.  She folded the paper and glanced carelessly at the name at the top of the outside page and said, “Well?”

“Was there ever anything so disgraceful?” cried the girl.  “Was there every anything so false?”

“Is it false?” asked Ella.

“How can you doubt it?  Do you fancy that Mr. Courtland would be a slave-dealer?”

“I wonder how he’d look in the broad flat hat which appears in all the pictures of the slave-dealers?  Rather well, I fancy,” said Mrs. Linton.

“Oh, how can you talk of his looking well or ill when you read such an attack upon him?” said Phyllis, jumping up with a charmingly rosy face.  “Surely it is something to you when so distinguished a man—­your friend as well—­is attacked!”

“If we were traveling with him across the desert in a caravan, should we mind much if the whole caravan were attacked by Bedouins or missionaries or people of that stamp, my dear?  Of course we shouldn’t.  We should feel that he would be equal to the defense of all of us, and himself as well.”

“Oh, of course; but this is quite another thing, isn’t it?”

“Where is the difference?  If anybody minds the nonsense printed in that thing, Herbert Courtland will certainly be able to defend himself when called on to do so.”