Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

Greater than ever was her love of the fine furbelows that were hers to flaunt in, and sharper her appetite for the fine hot dishes, and more tempestuous her scolding of Betty, poor maid. She was more than ever now the cynosure, the adored, of the fine young gentlemen. And as for her husband, she looked up to him as the wisest, kindest man in all the world.” “And the fine young gentlemen,” said Zuleika, “did she fall in love with any of them?” “You forget,” said the Duke coldly, “she was married to a member of my family.” “Oh, I beg your pardon. But tell me: did they ALL adore her?” “Yes. Every one of them, wildly, madly.” “Ah,” murmured Zuleika, with a smile of understanding. A shadow crossed her face, “Even so,” she said, with some pique, “I don’t suppose she had so very many adorers. She never went out into the world.” “Tankerton,” said the Duke drily, “is a large house, and my great-great-grandfather was the most hospitable of men. However,” he added, marvelling that she had again missed the point so utterly, “my purpose was not to confront you with a past rival in conquest, but to set at rest a fear which I had, I think, roused in you by my somewhat full description of the high majestic life to which you, as my bride, would be translated.” “A fear? What sort of a fear?”