Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

The girl had ceased from crying, and her anger had spent itself in sobs. She was gazing at him woebegone but composed. “Where are you going?” “You must not ask that,” said he. “Enough that my wings are spread.” “Are you going because of ME?” “Not in the least. Indeed, your devotion is one of the things which make bitter my departure. And yet--I am glad you love me.” “Don’t go,” she faltered. He came nearer to her, and this time she did not shrink from him. “Don’t you find the rooms comfortable?” she asked, gazing up at him. “Have you ever had any complaint to make about the attendance?” “No,” said the Duke, “the attendance has always been quite satisfactory. I have never felt that so keenly as I do to-day.” “Then why are you leaving? Why are you breaking my heart?” “Suffice it that I cannot do otherwise. Henceforth you will see me no more. But I doubt not that in the cultivation of my memory you will find some sort of lugubrious satisfaction. See! here are the ear-rings. If you like, I will put them in with my own hands.” She held up her face side-ways. Into the lobe of her left ear he insinuated the hook of the black pearl. On the cheek upturned to him there were still traces of tears; the eyelashes were still spangled. For all her blondness, they were quite dark, these glistening eyelashes. He had an impulse, which he put from him. “Now the other ear,” he said. The girl turned her head. Soon the pink pearl was in its place. Yet the girl did not move. She seemed to be waiting. Nor did the Duke himself seem to be quite satisfied. He let his fingers dally with the pearl. Anon, with a sigh, he withdrew them. The girl looked up. Their eyes met. He looked away from her. He turned away from her. “You may kiss my hand,” he murmured, extending it towards her. After a pause, the warm pressure of her lips was laid on it. He sighed, but did not look round. Another pause, a longer pause, and then the clatter and clink of the outgoing tray.