Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

“Hush,” said the Duke, “hush! You are over-excited. There will be a crowd under my window. There, there! I am sorry. I thought--” “Oh, I know what you thought,” said Zuleika, in a quieter tone. “I am sure you meant well. I am sorry I lost my temper. Only, you might have given me credit for meaning what I said: that I would not marry you, because I did not love you. I daresay there would be great advantages in being your Duchess. But the fact is, I have no worldly wisdom. To me, marriage is a sacrament. I could no more marry a man about whom I could not make a fool of myself than I could marry one who made a fool of himself about me. Else had I long ceased to be a spinster. Oh my friend, do not imagine that I have not rejected, in my day, a score of suitors quite as eligible as you.” “As eligible? Who were they?” frowned the Duke. “Oh, Archduke this, and Grand Duke that, and His Serene Highness the other. I have a wretched memory for names.” “And my name, too, will soon escape you, perhaps?” “No. Oh, no. I shall always remember yours. You see, I was in love with you. You deceived me into loving you...” She sighed. “Oh, had you but been as strong as I thought you... Still, a swain the more. That is something.” She leaned forward, smiling archly. “Those studs--show me them again.”