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Updated: June 14, 2025
She handed the vessel to The MacQuern, who, looking like an overgrown acolyte, bore it after her as she went again among the audience. Pausing before a man in the front row, she asked him if he would trust her with his watch. He held it out to her. "Thank you," she said, letting her fingers touch his for a moment before she dropped it into the Magic Canister.
The Duke and The MacQuern would never have come to blows in the presence of a lady. Their conflict was necessarily spiritual. And it was the Scotsman, Scots though he was, who had to yield. Cowed by something demoniac in the will-power pitted against his, he found himself retreating in the direction indicated by the Duke's forefinger. As he disappeared into the porch, Zuleika turned to the Duke.
Another conflict, you see. And another. He longed to orate about the woman who had his heart; yet she was the one topic that must be shirked. The MacQuern and Mr. Trent-Garby, Sir John Marraby and Lord Sayes, they too though they were no orators would fain have unpacked their hearts in words about Zuleika.
Quickly drawing about him some remnants of his tattered pride, he hid his wound, and accepted the invitation. "It seems a shame," said Zuleika to The MacQuern, "to ask you to bring this great heavy box all the way back again. But " Those last poor rags of pride fell away now.
"Nothing whatsoever," said the Duke drily. "Oh HE," said Zuleika, "thinks me an unredeemed brute; just because I don't love him. YOU, dear Mr. MacQuern does one call you 'Mr.? 'The' would sound so odd in the vocative. And I can't very well call you 'MacQuern' YOU don't think me unkind, do you?
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.
Trent-Garby, sprang to their feet; The MacQuern rose to his. "Zuleika Dobson!" they cried, and drained their glasses. Then, when they had resumed their seats, came an awkward pause. The Duke, still erect beside the chair he had vacated, looked very grave and pale. Marraby had taken an outrageous liberty. But "a member of the Junta can do no wrong," and the liberty could not be resented.
He carried his crusade into the Loder, and thence into Vincent's, and out into the street again, eager, untiring, unavailing: everywhere he found his precept checkmated by his example. The sight of The MacQuern coming out top-speed from the Market, with a large but inexpensive bunch of flowers, reminded him of the luncheon that was to be.
"Would you trust me with your studs?" she asked him, in a voice that could be heard throughout the quadrangle, with a smile that was for him alone. There was no help for it. He quickly extricated from his shirt-front the black pearl and the pink. Her thanks had a special emphasis. The MacQuern placed the Magic Canister before her on the table. She pressed the outer sheath down on it.
Tell me," she said, heedless of the Duke, who stood tapping his heel on the ground, with every manifestation of disapproval and impatience, "tell me, is it true that some of the other men love me too, and feel as you do?" The MacQuern said cautiously that he could answer for no one but himself.
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