Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

A cynosure indeed! A hundred eyes were fixed on her, and half as many hearts lost to her. The Warden of Judas himself had mounted on his nose a pair of black-rimmed glasses. Him espying, the nymph darted in his direction. The throng made way for her. She was at his side. “Grandpapa!” she cried, and kissed the old man on either cheek. (Not a youth there but would have bartered fifty years of his future for that salute.) “My dear Zuleika,” he said, “welcome to Oxford! Have you no luggage?” “Heaps!” she answered. “And a maid who will find it.” “Then,” said the Warden, “let us drive straight to College.” He offered her his arm, and they proceeded slowly to the entrance. She chatted gaily, blushing not in the long avenue of eyes she passed through. All the youths, under her spell, were now quite oblivious of the relatives they had come to meet. Parents, sisters, cousins, ran unclaimed about the platform. Undutiful, all the youths were forming a serried suite to their enchantress. In silence they followed her. They saw her leap into the Warden’s landau, they saw the Warden seat himself upon her left. Nor was it until the landau was lost to sight that they turned--how slowly, and with how bad a grace!--to look for their relatives. Through those slums which connect Oxford with the world, the landau rolled on towards Judas. Not many youths occurred, for nearly all--it was the Monday of Eights Week--were down by the river, cheering the crews. There did, however, come spurring by, on a polo-pony, a very splendid youth. His straw hat was encircled with a riband of blue and white, and he raised it to the Warden.