Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

“A daring statement, my child--very hard to prove.” “Hasn’t it been proved up to the hilt to-day?” “To-day?... Ah, and so they did really all drown themselves for you?... Dear, dear!... The Duke--he, too?” “He set the example.” “No! You don’t say so! He was a greatly-gifted young man--a true ornament to the College. But he always seemed to me rather--what shall I say?--inhuman... I remember now that he did seem rather excited when he came to the concert last night and you weren’t yet there... You are quite sure you were the cause of his death?” “Quite,” said Zuleika, marvelling at the lie--or fib, rather: he had been GOING to die for her. But why not have told the truth? Was it possible, she wondered, that her wretched vanity had survived her renunciation of the world? Why had she so resented just now the doubt cast on that irresistibility which had blighted and cranked her whole life? “Well, my dear,” said the Warden, “I confess that I am amazed--astounded.” Again he adjusted his glasses, and looked at her. She found herself moving slowly around the study, with the gait of a mannequin in a dress-maker’s show-room. She tried to stop this; but her body seemed to be quite beyond control of her mind. It had the insolence to go ambling on its own account. “Little space you’ll have in a convent cell,” snarled her mind vindictively. Her body paid no heed whatever. Her grandfather, leaning back in his chair, gazed at the ceiling, and meditatively tapped the finger-tips of one hand against those of the other. “Sister Zuleika,” he presently said to the ceiling.