Just after she had risen, a figure appeared in the doorway.
“I beg pardon, your Grace; Mother wants to know, will you be lunching in?”
“Yes,” said the Duke. “I will ring when I am ready.” And it dawned on him that this girl, who perhaps loved him, was, according to all known standards, extraordinarily pretty.
“Will—” she hesitated, “will Miss Dobson be—”
“No,” he said. “I shall be alone.” And there was in the girl’s parting half-glance at Zuleika that which told him he was truly loved, and made him the more impatient of his offensive and accursed visitor.
“You want to be rid of me?” asked Zuleika, when the girl was gone.
“I have no wish to be rude; but—since you force me to say it—yes.”
“Then take me,” she cried, throwing back her arms, “and throw me out of the window.”
He smiled coldly.
“You think I don’t mean it? You think I would struggle? Try me.” She let herself droop sideways, in an attitude limp and portable. “Try me,” she repeated.