Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

In me you behold a Prince of the Holy Roman Empire, and a Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter. Look well at me! I am Hereditary Comber of the Queen’s Lap-Dogs. I am young. I am handsome. My temper is sweet, and my character without blemish. In fine, Miss Dobson, I am a most desirable parti.” “But,” said Zuleika, “I don’t love you.” The Duke stamped his foot. “I beg your pardon,” he said hastily. “I ought not to have done that. But--you seem to have entirely missed the point of what I was saying.” “No, I haven’t,” said Zuleika. “Then what,” cried the Duke, standing over her, “what is your reply?” Said Zuleika, looking up at him, “My reply is that I think you are an awful snob.” The Duke turned on his heel, and strode to the other end of the room. There he stood for some moments, his back to Zuleika. “I think,” she resumed in a slow, meditative voice, “that you are, with the possible exception of a Mr. Edelweiss, THE most awful snob I have ever met.” The Duke looked back over his shoulder. He gave Zuleika the stinging reprimand of silence. She was sorry, and showed it in her eyes. She felt she had gone too far. True, he was nothing to her now. But she had loved him once. She could not forget that. “Come!” she said. “Let us be good friends. Give me your hand!” He came to her, slowly. “There!”