Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

“Z. D. “P.S.--Please burn this.” At that final injunction, the Duke abandoned himself to his mirth. “Please burn this.” Poor dear young woman, how modest she was in the glare of her diplomacy! Why there was nothing, not one phrase, to compromise her in the eyes of a coroner’s jury!... Seriously, she had good reason to be proud of her letter. For the purpose in view it couldn’t have been better done. That was what made it so touchingly absurd. He put himself in her position. He pictured himself as her, “sitting up in bed,” pencil in hand, to explain away, to soothe, to clinch and bind... Yes, if he had happened to be some other man--one whom her insult might have angered without giving love its death-blow, and one who could be frightened out of not keeping his word--this letter would have been capital. He helped himself to some more marmalade, and poured out another cup of coffee. Nothing is more thrilling, thought he, than to be treated as a cully by the person you hold in the hollow of your hand. But within this great irony lay (to be glided over) another irony. He knew well in what mood Zuleika had done what she had done to him last night; yet he preferred to accept her explanation of it. Officially, then, he acquitted her of anything worse than tomboyishness. But this verdict for his own convenience implied no mercy to the culprit. The sole point for him was how to administer her punishment the most poignantly. Just how should he word his letter?