Humphrey Greddon, in the Duke’s place, would have taken a pinch of snuff. But he could not have made that gesture with a finer air than the Duke gave to its modern equivalent. In the art of taking and lighting¹ a cigarette, there was one man who had no rival in Europe. This time he outdid even himself.  
“Ah,” you say, “but ‘pluck’ is one thing, endurance another. A man who doesn’t reel on receipt of his death-warrant may yet break down when he has had time to think it over. How did the Duke acquit² himself when he came to the end of his cigarette? And by the way, how was it that after he had read the telegram you didn’t give him again an hour’s grace?”
 
In a way, you have a perfect right to ask both those questions. But their very pertinence³ shows that you think I might omit things that matter. Please don’t interrupt me again. Am I writing this history, or are you?
 
Though the news that he must die was a yet sharper douche, as you have suggested, than the douche inflicted⁴ by Zuleika, it did at least leave unscathed the Duke’s pride. The gods can make a man ridiculous through a woman, but they cannot make him ridiculous when they deal him a blow direct. The very greatness of their power makes them, in that respect, impotent. They had decreed that the Duke should die, and they had told him so. There was nothing to demean him in that. True, he had just measured himself against them. But there was no shame in being gravelled. The peripety was according to the best rules of tragic⁶ art. The whole thing was in the grand manner.
 
Thus I felt that there were no indelicacy, this time, in watching him. Just as “pluck” comes of breeding, so is endurance especially an attribute of the artist. Because he can stand outside himself, and (if there be nothing ignoble⁸ in them) take a pleasure in his own sufferings, the artist has a huge advantage over you and me. The Duke, so soon as Zuleika’s spell was broken, had become himself again—a highly self-conscious artist in life. And now, standing⁹ pensive¹⁰ on the doorstep, he was almost enviable in his great affliction.
 
Through the wreaths of smoke which, as they came from his lips, hung in the sultry air as they would have hung in a closed room, he gazed up at the steadfast¹¹ thunder-clouds. How nobly they had been massed for him! One of them, a particularly large and dark one, might with advantage, he thought, have been placed a little further to the left. He made a gesture to that effect. Instantly the cloud rolled into position. The gods were painfully anxious, now, to humour him in trifles. His behaviour in the great emergency had so impressed them at a distance that they rather dreaded¹³ meeting him anon at close quarters. They rather wished they had not uncaged, last night, the two black owls¹⁵. Too late. What they had done they had done.
 
That faint monotonous¹⁶ sound in the stillness of the night—the Duke remembered it now. What he had thought to be only his fancy had been his death-knell, wafted¹⁷ to him along uncharted waves of ether, from the battlements of Tankerton. It had ceased at daybreak. He wondered now that he had not guessed its meaning. And he was glad that he had not. He was thankful for the peace that had been granted to him, the joyous¹⁸ arrogance¹⁹ in which he had gone to bed and got up for breakfast. He valued these mercies the more for the great tragic irony²⁰ that came of them. Aye, and he was inclined to blame the gods for not having kept him still longer in the dark and so made the irony still more awful. Why had they not caused the telegram to be delayed in transmission? They ought to have let him go and riddle²¹ Zuleika with his scorn and his indifference²². They ought to have let him hurl²³ through her his defiance²⁴ of them. Art aside, they need not have grudged²⁵ him that excursion.
 
He could not, he told himself, face Zuleika now. As artist, he saw that there was irony enough left over to make the meeting a fine one. As theologian, he did not hold her responsible for his destiny. But as a man, after what she had done to him last night, and before what he had to do for her to-day, he would not go out of his way to meet her. Of course, he would not actually avoid her. To seem to run away from her were beneath his dignity. But, if he did meet her, what in heaven’s name should he say to her? He remembered his promise to lunch with The MacQuern, and shuddered²⁶. She would be there. Death, as he had said, cancelled all engagements. A very simple way out of the difficulty would be to go straight to the river. No, that would be like running away. It couldn’t be done.
 
Hardly had he rejected the notion when he had a glimpse of a female figure coming quickly round the corner—a glimpse that sent him walking quickly away, across the road, towards Turl Street, blushing violently. Had she seen him? he asked himself. And had she seen that he saw her? He heard her running after him. He did not look round, he quickened his pace. She was gaining on him. Involuntarily, he ran—ran like a hare, and, at the corner of Turl Street, rose like a trout²⁷, saw the pavement rise at him, and fell, with a bang, prone²⁸.
 
Let it be said at once that in this matter the gods were absolutely blameless. It is true they had decreed that a piece of orange-peel should be thrown down this morning at the corner of Turl Street. But the Master of Balliol, not the Duke, was the person they had destined²⁹ to slip on it. You must not imagine that they think out and appoint everything that is to befall us, down to the smallest detail. Generally, they just draw a sort of broad outline, and leave us to fill it in according to our taste. Thus, in the matters of which this book is record, it was they who made the Warden³⁰ invite his grand-daughter to Oxford³¹, and invite the Duke to meet her on the evening of her arrival. And it was they who prompted the Duke to die for her on the following (Tuesday) afternoon. They had intended that he should execute his resolve after, or before, the boat-race of that evening. But an oversight³² upset this plan. They had forgotten on Monday night to uncage the two black owls; and so it was necessary that the Duke’s death should be postponed³⁴. They accordingly prompted Zuleika to save him. For the rest, they let the tragedy run its own course—merely putting in a felicitous³⁵ touch here and there, or vetoing a superfluity, such as that Katie should open Zuleika’s letter. It was no part of their scheme that the Duke should mistake Melisande for her mistress, or that he should run away from her, and they were genuinely sorry when he, instead of the Master of Balliol, came to grief over the orange-peel.
 
Them, however, the Duke cursed as he fell; them again as he raised himself on one elbow, giddy and sore; and when he found that the woman bending over him was not she whom he dreaded, but her innocent maid, it was against them that he almost foamed³⁶ at the mouth.
 
“Monsieur le Duc has done himself harm—no?” panted Melisande. “Here is a letter from Miss Dobson’s part. She say to me ‘Give it him with your own hand.’”
 
The Duke received the letter and, sitting upright, tore it to shreds³⁷, thus confirming a suspicion which Melisande had conceived at the moment when he took to his heels, that all English noblemen are mad, but mad, and of a madness.
 
“Nom de Dieu,” she cried, wringing³⁸ her hands, “what shall I tell to Mademoiselle?”
 
“Tell her—” the Duke choked back a phrase of which the memory would have shamed his last hours. “Tell her,” he substituted, “that you have seen Marius sitting among the ruins of Carthage,” and limped quickly away down the Turl.
 
Both his hands had been abraded³⁹ by the fall. He tended them angrily with his handkerchief. Mr. Druce, the chemist, had anon the privilege of bathing and plastering them, also of balming and binding⁴⁰ the right knee and the left shin. “Might have been a very nasty accident, your Grace,” he said. “It was,” said the Duke. Mr. Druce concurred⁴¹.
 
Nevertheless, Mr. Druce’s remark sank deep. The Duke thought it quite likely that the gods had intended the accident to be fatal, and that only by his own skill and lightness in falling had he escaped the ignominy of dying in full flight from a lady’s-maid. He had not, you see, lost all sense of free-will. While Mr. Druce put the finishing touches to his shin, “I am utterly⁴² purposed,” he said to himself, “that for this death of mine I will choose my own manner and my own—well, not ‘time’ exactly, but whatever moment within my brief span of life shall seem aptest to me. Unberufen,” he added, lightly tapping Mr. Druce’s counter.
 
The sight of some bottles of Cold Mixture on that hospitable⁴³ board reminded him of a painful fact. In the clash of the morning’s excitements, he had hardly felt the gross ailment⁴⁴ that was on him. He became fully¹² conscious of it now, and there leapt in him a hideous⁴⁵ doubt: had he escaped a violent death only to succumb⁴⁶ to “natural causes”? He had never hitherto had anything the matter with him, and thus he belonged to the worst, the most apprehensive⁴⁷, class of patients. He knew that a cold, were it neglected, might turn malignant⁴⁸; and he had a vision of himself gripped suddenly in the street by internal agonies—a sympathetic crowd, an ambulance, his darkened bedroom; local doctor making hopelessly wrong diagnosis⁴⁹; eminent⁵⁰ specialists served up hot by special train, commending local doctor’s treatment, but shaking their heads and refusing to say more than “He has youth on his side”; a slight rally at sunset; the end. All this flashed through his mind. He quailed⁵¹. There was not a moment to lose. He frankly⁵² confessed to Mr. Druce that he had a cold.
 
Mr. Druce, trying to insinuate⁵³ by his manner that this fact had not been obvious, suggested the Mixture—a teaspoonful⁵⁴ every two hours. “Give me some now, please, at once,” said the Duke.
 
He felt magically better for the draught⁵⁵. He handled the little glass lovingly, and eyed the bottle. “Why not two teaspoonfuls every hour?” he suggested, with an eagerness almost dipsomaniacal. But Mr. Druce was respectfully firm against that. The Duke yielded. He fancied, indeed, that the gods had meant him to die of an overdose.
 
Still, he had a craving⁵⁶ for more. Few though his hours were, he hoped the next two would pass quickly. And, though he knew Mr. Druce could be trusted to send the bottle round to his rooms immediately, he preferred to carry it away with him. He slipped it into the breast-pocket of his coat, almost heedless of the slight extrusion⁵⁷ it made there.
 
Just as he was about to cross the High again, on his way home, a butcher’s cart dashed down the slope, recklessly driven. He stepped well back on the pavement, and smiled a sardonic⁵⁸ smile. He looked to right and to left, carefully gauging⁵⁹ the traffic. Some time elapsed before he deemed the road clear enough for transit⁶⁰.
 
Safely across, he encountered a figure that seemed to loom⁶¹ up out of the dim past. Oover! Was it but yesternight that Oover dined with him? With the sensation of a man groping among archives, he began to apologise to the Rhodes Scholar for having left him so abruptly⁶² at the Junta⁶³. Then, presto⁶⁴!—as though those musty archives were changed to a crisp morning paper agog⁶⁵ with terrific head-lines—he remembered the awful resolve of Oover, and of all young Oxford.
 
“Of course,” he asked, with a lightness that hardly hid his dread¹⁴ of the answer, “you have dismissed the notion you were toying with when I left you?”
 
Oover’s face, like his nature, was as sensitive as it was massive, and it instantly expressed his pain at the doubt cast on his high seriousness. “Duke,” he asked, “d’you take me for a skunk⁶⁶?”
 
“Without pretending to be quite sure what a skunk is,” said the Duke, “I take you to be all that it isn’t. And the high esteem⁶⁷ in which I hold you is the measure for me of the loss that your death would be to America and to Oxford.”
 
Oover blushed. “Duke” he said “that’s a bully⁶⁸ testimonial. But don’t worry. America can turn out millions just like me, and Oxford can have as many of them as she can hold. On the other hand, how many of YOU can be turned out, as per sample, in England? Yet you choose to destroy yourself. You avail yourself of the Unwritten Law. And you’re right, Sir. Love transcends⁶⁹ all.”
 
“But does it? What if I told you I had changed my mind?”
 
“Then, Duke,” said Oover, slowly, “I should believe that all those yarns⁷⁰ I used to hear about the British aristocracy were true, after all. I should aver⁷¹ that you were not a white man. Leading us on like that, and then—Say, Duke! Are you going to die to-day, or not?”
 
“As a matter of fact, I am, but—”
 
“Shake!”
 
“But—”
 
Oover wrung⁷² the Duke’s hand, and was passing on. “Stay!” he was adjured⁷³.
 
“Sorry, unable. It’s just turning eleven o’clock, and I’ve a lecture. While life lasts, I’m bound to respect Rhodes’ intentions.” The conscientious⁷⁴ Scholar hurried away.
 
The Duke wandered down the High, taking counsel with himself. He was ashamed of having so utterly forgotten the mischief⁷⁵ he had wrought⁷⁶ at large. At dawn he had vowed⁷⁷ to undo⁷⁸ it. Undo it he must. But the task was not a simple one now. If he could say “Behold, I take back my word. I spurn⁷⁹ Miss Dobson, and embrace life,” it was possible that his example would suffice. But now that he could only say “Behold, I spurn Miss Dobson, and will not die for her, but I am going to commit suicide, all the same,” it was clear that his words would carry very little force. Also, he saw with pain that they placed him in a somewhat ludicrous position. His end, as designed yesterday, had a large and simple grandeur⁸⁰. So had his recantation of it. But this new compromise between the two things had a fumbled⁸¹, a feeble, an ignoble look. It seemed to combine all the disadvantages of both courses. It stained his honour without prolonging his life. Surely, this was a high price to pay for snubbing Zuleika... Yes, he must revert⁸² without more ado to his first scheme. He must die in the manner that he had blazoned⁸³ forth⁸⁴. And he must do it with a good grace, none know............