Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

There he fought calmly, ferociously, till a bullet went through his chest. “By God, this College is well-named!” were the words he uttered as he fell forward and died. Comparatively tame was the scene now being enacted in this place. The Duke, with bowed head, was pacing the path between the lawn and the cloisters. Two other undergraduates stood watching him, whispering to each other, under the archway that leads to the Front Quadrangle. Presently, in a sheepish way, they approached him. He halted and looked up. “I say,” stammered the spokesman. “Well?” asked the Duke. Both youths were slightly acquainted with him; but he was not used to being spoken to by those whom he had not first addressed. Moreover, he was loth to be thus disturbed in his sombre reverie. His manner was not encouraging. “Isn’t it a lovely day for the Eights?” faltered the spokesman. “I conceive,” the Duke said, “that you hold back some other question.” The spokesman smiled weakly. Nudged by the other, he muttered “Ask him yourself!” The Duke diverted his gaze to the other, who, with an angry look at the one, cleared his throat, and said “I was going to ask if you thought Miss Dobson would come and have luncheon with me to-morrow?” “A sister of mine will be there,” explained the one, knowing the Duke to be a precisian. “If you are acquainted with Miss Dobson, a direct invitation should be sent to her,” said the Duke. “If you are not--” The aposiopesis was icy.