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Updated: May 5, 2025
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.
The Duke felt that the blame was on himself, who had elected Marraby to the club. Mr. Oover, too, looked grave. All the antiquarian in him deplored the sudden rupture of a fine old Oxford tradition. All the chivalrous American in him resented the slight on that fair victim of the feudal system, Miss O'Mora.
"Why is this?" asked the Duke, looking from one to the other. The MacQuern, with Scotch caution, was silent. But the impulsive Marraby Madcap Marraby, as they called him in B.N.C. said "It's because I won't lie!" and, leaping up, raised his glass aloft and cried "I give you Zuleika Dobson, the fairest witch that ever was or will be!" Mr. Oover, Lord Sayes, Mr.
"It's easy to see this man Gregson's a new hand," said Fontenoy, with an accent of annoyance, as they got clear of the village. "I believe the Wattons have only just imported him, otherwise he'd never have avoided Marraby, and come round by Battage." "Battage has some special connection with Burrows, hasn't it? I had forgotten." "Of course.
It splintered under his weight. He leapt heavily but well, followed by some uprooted geraniums. Squaring his shoulders, he threw back his head, and doubled down the slope. There was a violent jostle between the remaining men. The MacQuern cannily got out of it, and rushed downstairs. He emerged at the front-door just after Marraby touched ground. The Baronet's left ankle had twisted under him.
The Duke, looking around at the bent heads and drawn mouths of his auditors, saw that his words had gone home. It was Marraby who revealed how powerfully home they had gone. "Dorset," he said huskily, "I shall die too." The Duke flung up his hands, staring wildly. "I stand in with that," said Mr. Oover. "So do I!" said Lord Sayes. "And I!" said Mr. Trent-Garby; "And I!" The MacQuern.
Silent, frowning, flushed, he stood for a few moments, and then, with a deliberate gesture, tilted his glass and let fall the wine to the carpet. "No," he said, looking round the table, "I cannot give you Nellie O'Mora." "Why not?" gasped Sir John Marraby. "You have a right to ask that," said the Duke, still standing.
Of course I cannot both hold this view and remain President of this club. MacQuern Marraby which of you is Vice-President?" "He is," said Marraby. "Then, MacQuern, you are hereby President, vice myself resigned. Take the chair and propose the toast." "I would rather not," said The MacQuern after a pause. "Then, Marraby, YOU must." "Not I!" said Marraby.
"And you would all of you, like Marraby, wish to be presented to this lady?" Their eyes dilated. "That way happiness lies, think you?" "Oh, happiness be hanged!" said Marraby. To the Duke this seemed a profoundly sane remark an epitome of his own sentiments. But what was right for himself was not right for all. He believed in convention as the best way for average mankind.
"You know her only by sight by repute?" asked the Duke. They signified that this was so. "I wish you would introduce me to her," said Marraby. "You are all coming to the Judas concert tonight?" the Duke asked, ignoring Marraby. "You have all secured tickets?" They nodded. "To hear me play, or to see Miss Dobson?" There was a murmur of "Both both."
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