Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

With something of a conventual hush in her voice, she said to the butler, “Please tell my maid that we are leaving by a very early train to-morrow, and that she must pack my things to-night.” “Very well, Miss,” said the butler. “The Warden,” he added, “is in the study, Miss, and was asking for you.” She could face her grandfather without a tremour--now. She would hear meekly whatever reproaches he might have for her, but their sting was already drawn by the surprise she had in store for him. It was he who seemed a trifle nervous. In his “Well, did you come and peep down from the gallery?” there was a distinct tremour. Throwing aside her cloak, she went quickly to him, and laid a hand on the lapel of his coat. “Poor grand-papa!” she said. “Nonsense, my dear child,” he replied, disengaging himself. “I didn’t give it a thought. If the young men chose to be so silly as to stay away, I--I--” “Grand-papa, haven’t you been told YET?” “Told? I am a Gallio for such follies. I didn’t inquire.” “But (forgive me, grand-papa, if I seem to you, for the moment, pert) you are Warden here. It is your duty, even your privilege, to GUARD. Is it not? Well, I grant you the adage that it is useless to bolt the stable door when the horse has been stolen. But what shall be said of the ostler who doesn’t know--won’t even ‘inquire’ whether--the horse HAS been stolen, grand-papa?”