Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

“To die for me? To-morrow?” “To-morrow. After the Eights, I suppose; at the same time as the Duke. It wouldn’t do to leave the races undecided.” “Of COURSE not. But the poor dears! It is too touching! I have done nothing, nothing to deserve it.” “Nothing whatsoever,” said the Duke drily. “Oh HE,” said Zuleika, “thinks me an unredeemed brute; just because I don’t love him. YOU, dear Mr. MacQuern--does one call you ‘Mr.’? ‘The’ would sound so odd in the vocative. And I can’t very well call you ‘MacQuern’--YOU don’t think me unkind, do you? I simply can’t bear to think of all these young lives cut short without my having done a thing to brighten them. What can I do?--what can I do to show my gratitude?” An idea struck her. She looked up to the lit window of her room. “Melisande!” she called. A figure appeared at the window. “Mademoiselle desire?” “My tricks, Melisande! Bring down the box, quick!” She turned excitedly to the two young men. “It is all I can do in return, you see. If I could dance for them, I would. If I could sing, I would sing to them. I do what I can. You,” she said to the Duke, “must go on to the platform and announce it.” “Announce what?” “Why, that I am going to do my tricks! All you need say is ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have the pleasure to--’ What is the matter now?” “You make me feel slightly unwell,” said the Duke.