Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

They were in Salt Cellar now. “Melisande!” she called up to her window. “Hush!” said the Duke, “I have something to say to you.” “Well, you can say it all the better without that great box in your hands. I want my maid to carry it up to my room for me.” And again she called out for Melisande, and received no answer. “I suppose she’s in the house-keeper’s room or somewhere. You had better put the box down inside the door. She can bring it up later.” She pushed open the postern; and the Duke, as he stepped across the threshold, thrilled with a romantic awe. Re-emerging a moment later into the moonlight, he felt that she had been right about the box: it was fatal to self-expression; and he was glad he had not tried to speak on the way from the Front Quad: the soul needs gesture; and the Duke’s first gesture now was to seize Zuleika’s hands in his. She was too startled to move. “Zuleika!” he whispered. She was too angry to speak, but with a sudden twist she freed her wrists and darted back. He laughed. “You are afraid of me. You are afraid to let me kiss you, because you are afraid of loving me. This afternoon--here--I all but kissed you. I mistook you for Death. I was enamoured of Death. I was a fool. That is what YOU are, you incomparable darling: you are a fool. You are afraid of life. I am not. I love life. I am going to live for you, do you hear?”