Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

Those who were Judas men made frantic efforts to board the barge, trying to hurl themselves through the gate in the railings; but they were swept vainly on. Presently the torrent began to slacken, became a mere river, a mere procession of youths staring up rather shyly. Before the last stragglers had marched by, Zuleika moved away to the other side of the roof, and, after a glance at the sunlit river, sank into one of the wicker chairs, and asked the Duke to look less disagreeable and to give her some tea. Among others hovering near the little buffet were the two youths whose parley with the Duke I have recorded. Zuleika was aware of the special persistence of their gaze. When the Duke came back with her cup, she asked him who they were. He replied, truthfully enough, that their names were unknown to him. “Then,” she said, “ask them their names, and introduce them to me.” “No,” said the Duke, sinking into the chair beside her. “That I shall not do. I am your victim: not your pander. Those two men stand on the threshold of a possibly useful and agreeable career. I am not going to trip them up for you.” “I am not sure,” said Zuleika, “that you are very polite. Certainly you are foolish. It is natural for boys to fall in love. If these two are in love with me, why not let them talk to me? It were an experience on which they would always look back with romantic pleasure. They may never see me again. Why grudge them this little thing?” She sipped her tea. “As for tripping them up on a threshold--that is all nonsense. What harm has unrequited love ever done to anybody?” She laughed. “Look at ME! When I came to your rooms this morning, thinking I loved in vain, did I seem one jot the worse for it? Did I look different?”