Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

To-night, as he, a doomed man, went up into the familiar rooms, he was wholly glad that he had thus relented. As yet, he was spared the tragic knowledge that it would make no difference.* * The Junta has been reconstituted. But the apostolic line was broken, the thread was snapped; the old magic is fled. The MacQuern and two other young men were already there. “Mr. President,” said The MacQuern, “I present Mr. Trent-Garby, of Christ Church.” “The Junta is honoured,” said the Duke, bowing. Such was the ritual of the club. The other young man, because his host, Sir John Marraby, was not yet on the scene, had no locus standi, and, though a friend of The MacQuern, and well known to the Duke, had to be ignored. A moment later, Sir John arrived. “Mr. President,” he said, “I present Lord Sayes, of Magdalen.” “The Junta is honoured,” said the Duke, bowing. Both hosts and both guests, having been prominent in the throng that vociferated around Zuleika an hour earlier, were slightly abashed in the Duke’s presence. He, however, had not noticed any one in particular, and, even if he had, that fine tradition of the club--“A member of the Junta can do no wrong; a guest of the Junta cannot err”--would have prevented him from showing his displeasure. A Herculean figure filled the doorway. “The Junta is honoured,” said the Duke, bowing to his guest. “Duke,” said the newcomer quietly, “the honour is as much mine as that of the interesting and ancient institution which I am this night privileged to inspect.”