Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

“I would rather make my excuses forthwith,” said the Duke. “And, as the races must be almost due now, I advise you to go straight up and secure a place against the railing.” “It will look very odd, my going all alone into a crowd of people whom I don’t know. I’m an unmarried girl. I do think you might--” “Good-bye,” said the Duke. Again Zuleika raised a warning finger. “Good-bye, John,” she whispered. “See, I am still wearing your studs. Good-bye. Don’t forget to call my name in a loud voice. You promised.” “Yes.” “And,” she added, after a pause, “remember this. I have loved but twice in my life; and none but you have I loved. This, too: if you hadn’t forced me to kill my love, I would have died with you. And you know it is true.” “Yes.” It was true enough. Courteously he watched her up the stairs. As she reached the roof, she cried down to him from the throng, “Then you will wait down there to take me home afterwards?” He bowed silently. The raft was even more crowded than yesterday, but way was made for him by Judasians past and present. He took his place in the centre of the front row. At his feet flowed the fateful river. From the various barges the last punt-loads had been ferried across to the towing-path, and the last of the men who were to follow the boats in their course had vanished towards the starting-point. There remained, however, a fringe of lesser enthusiasts. Their figures stood outlined sharply in that strange dark clearness which immediately precedes a storm.