Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

“You will do nothing of the sort,” interposed the Duke. “There,” said Zuleika, still retaining The MacQuern’s hand, “you see, it is forbidden. You must not defy our dear little Duke. He is not used to it. It is not done.” “I don’t know,” said The MacQuern, with a stony glance at the Duke, “that he has anything to do with the matter.” “He is older and wiser than you. More a man of the world. Regard him as your tutor.” “Do YOU want me not to die for you?” asked the young man. “Ah, I should not dare to impose my wishes on you,” said she, dropping his hand. “Even,” she added, “if I knew what my wishes were. And I don’t. I know only that I think it is very, very beautiful of you to think of dying for me.” “Then that settles it,” said The MacQuern. “No, no! You must not let yourself be influenced by ME. Besides, I am not in a mood to influence anybody. I am overwhelmed. Tell me,” she said, heedless of the Duke, who stood tapping his heel on the ground, with every manifestation of disapproval and impatience, “tell me, is it true that some of the other men love me too, and--feel as you do?” The MacQuern said cautiously that he could answer for no one but himself. “But,” he allowed, “I saw a good many men whom I know, outside the Hall here, just now, and they seemed to have made up their minds.”