Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

The Duke withdrew his fingers before she unclasped them. That twice-flung taunt rankled still. It was monstrous to have been called a snob. A snob!--he, whose readiness to form what would certainly be regarded as a shocking misalliance ought to have stifled the charge, not merely vindicated him from it! He had forgotten, in the blindness of his love, how shocking the misalliance would be. Perhaps she, unloving, had not been so forgetful? Perhaps her refusal had been made, generously, for his own sake. Nay, rather for her own. Evidently, she had felt that the high sphere from which he beckoned was no place for the likes of her. Evidently, she feared she would pine away among those strange splendours, never be acclimatised, always be unworthy. He had thought to overwhelm her, and he had done his work too thoroughly. Now he must try to lighten the load he had imposed. Seating himself opposite to her, “You remember,” he said, “that there is a dairy at Tankerton?” “A dairy? Oh yes.” “Do you remember what it is called?” Zuleika knit her brows. He helped her out. “It is called ‘Her Grace’s’.” “Oh, of course!” said Zuleika. “Do you know WHY it is called so?” “Well, let’s see... I know you told me.”