Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

Just after she had risen, a figure appeared in the doorway. “I beg pardon, your Grace; Mother wants to know, will you be lunching in?” “Yes,” said the Duke. “I will ring when I am ready.” And it dawned on him that this girl, who perhaps loved him, was, according to all known standards, extraordinarily pretty. “Will--” she hesitated, “will Miss Dobson be--” “No,” he said. “I shall be alone.” And there was in the girl’s parting half-glance at Zuleika that which told him he was truly loved, and made him the more impatient of his offensive and accursed visitor. “You want to be rid of me?” asked Zuleika, when the girl was gone. “I have no wish to be rude; but--since you force me to say it--yes.” “Then take me,” she cried, throwing back her arms, “and throw me out of the window.” He smiled coldly. “You think I don’t mean it? You think I would struggle? Try me.” She let herself droop sideways, in an attitude limp and portable. “Try me,” she repeated. “All this is very well conceived, no doubt,” said he, “and well executed. But it happens to be otiose.” “What do you mean?” “I mean you may set your mind at rest. I am not going to back out of my promise.” Zuleika flushed. “You are cruel. I would give the world and all not to have written you that hateful letter. Forget it, forget it, for pity’s sake!” The Duke looked searchingly at her. “You mean that you now wish to release me from my promise?”