Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

“I could but try,” said Zuleika. “‘You could but try’ are the very words Dr. Pusey used to me. I ventured to say that in such a matter effort itself was a stigma of unfitness. For all my moods of revulsion, I knew that my place was in the world. I stayed there.” “But suppose, grand-papa”--and, seeing in fancy the vast agitated flotilla of crinolines, she could not forbear a smile--“suppose all the young ladies of that period had drowned themselves for love of you?” Her smile seemed to nettle the Warden. “I was greatly admired,” he said. “Greatly,” he repeated. “And you liked that, grand-papa?” “Yes, my dear. Yes, I am afraid I did. But I never encouraged it.” “Your own heart was never touched?” “Never, until I met Laura Frith.” “Who was she?” “She was my future wife.” “And how was it you singled her out from the rest? Was she very beautiful?” “No. It cannot be said that she was beautiful. Indeed, she was accounted plain. I think it was her great dignity that attracted me. She did not smile archly at me, nor shake her ringlets. In those days it was the fashion for young ladies to embroider slippers for such men in holy orders as best pleased their fancy. I received hundreds--thousands--of such slippers. But never a pair from Laura Frith.” “She did not love you?” asked Zuleika, who had seated herself on the floor at her grandfather’s feet. I concluded that she did not. It interested me very greatly. It fired me.