Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

The moment had come for the removal of the table-cloth. The mahogany of the Junta was laid bare--a clear dark lake, anon to reflect in its still and ruddy depths the candelabras and the fruit-cradles, the slender glasses and the stout old decanters, the forfeit-box and the snuff-box, and other paraphernalia of the dignity of dessert. Lucidly, and unwaveringly inverted in the depths these good things stood; and, so soon as the wine had made its circuit, the Duke rose and with uplifted glass proposed the first of the two toasts traditional to the Junta. “Gentlemen, I give you Church and State.” The toast having been honoured by all--and by none with a richer reverence than by Oover, despite his passionate mental reservation in favour of Pittsburg-Anabaptism and the Republican Ideal--the snuff-box was handed round, and fruit was eaten. Presently, when the wine had gone round again, the Duke rose and with uplifted glass said “Gentlemen, I give you--” and there halted. Silent, frowning, flushed, he stood for a few moments, and then, with a deliberate gesture, tilted his glass and let fall the wine to the carpet. “No,” he said, looking round the table, “I cannot give you Nellie O’Mora.” “Why not?” gasped Sir John Marraby. “You have a right to ask that,” said the Duke, still standing. “I can only say that my conscience is stronger than my sense of what is due to the customs of the club. Nellie O’Mora,” he said, passing his hand over his brow, “may have been in her day the fairest witch that ever was--so fair that our founder had good reason to suppose her the fairest witch that ever would be. But his prediction was a false one. So at least it seems to me. Of course I cannot both hold this view and remain President of this club. MacQuern--Marraby--which of you is Vice-President?”