Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

Yes, he had controlled himself. But this, he furiously felt, did not make him look the less a fool. What ought he to have SAID? He prayed, as he followed the victorious young woman downstairs, that l’esprit de l’escalier might befall him. Alas, it did not. “By the way,” she said, when he had shown her where Balliol lay, “have you told anybody that you aren’t dying just for me?” “No,” he answered, “I have preferred not to.” “Then officially, as it were, and in the eyes of the world, you die for me? Then all’s well that ends well. Shall we say good-bye here? I shall be on the Judas Barge; but I suppose there will be a crush, as yesterday?” “Sure to be. There always is on the last night of the Eights, you know. Good-bye.” “Good-bye, little John--small John,” she cried across her shoulder, having the last word.