Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

“Well, you see,” said the other of the two, “that is just the difficulty. I AM acquainted with her. But is she acquainted with ME? I met her at breakfast this morning, at the Warden’s.” “So did I,” added the one. “But she--well,” continued the other, “she didn’t take much notice of us. She seemed to be in a sort of dream.” “Ah!” murmured the Duke, with melancholy interest. “The only time she opened her lips,” said the other, “was when she asked us whether we took tea or coffee.” “She put hot milk in my tea,” volunteered the one, “and upset the cup over my hand, and smiled vaguely.” “And smiled vaguely,” sighed the Duke. “She left us long before the marmalade stage,” said the one. “Without a word,” said the other. “Without a glance?” asked the Duke. It was testified by the one and the other that there had been not so much as a glance. “Doubtless,” the disingenuous Duke said, “she had a headache... Was she pale?” “Very pale,” answered the one. “A healthy pallor,” qualified the other, who was a constant reader of novels. “Did she look,” the Duke inquired, “as if she had spent a sleepless night?” That was the impression made on both. “Yet she did not seem listless or unhappy?” No, they would not go so far as to say that. “Indeed, were her eyes of an almost unnatural brilliance?” “Quite unnatural,” confessed the one. “Twin stars,” interpolated the other. “Did she, in fact, seem to be consumed by some inward rapture?”