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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
105
Mr.
Oover’s
moral
tone,
and
his
sense
of
chivalry,
were
of
the
American
kind:
far
higher
than
ours,
even,
and
far
better
expressed.
Whereas
the
English
guests
of
the
Junta,
when
they
heard
the
tale
of
Nellie
O’Mora,
would
merely
murmur
“Poor
girl!”
or
“What
a
shame!”
Mr.
Oover
said
in
a
tone
of
quiet
authority
that
compelled
Greddon’s
ear
“Duke,
I
hope
I
am
not
incognisant
of
the
laws
that
govern
the
relations
of
guest
and
host.
But,
Duke,
I
aver
deliberately
that
the
founder
of
this
fine
old
club;
at
which
you
are
so
splendidly
entertaining
me
to-night,
was
an
unmitigated
scoundrel.
I
say
he
was
not
a
white
man.”
At
the
word
“scoundrel,”
Humphrey
Greddon
had
sprung
forward,
drawing
his
sword,
and
loudly,
in
a
voice
audible
to
himself
alone,
challenged
the
American
to
make
good
his
words.
Then,
as
this
gentleman
took
no
notice,
with
one
clean
straight
thrust
Greddon
ran
him
through
the
heart,
shouting
“Die,
you
damned
psalm-singer
and
traducer!
And
so
die
all
rebels
against
King
George!”*
Withdrawing
the
blade,
he
wiped
it
daintily
on
his
cambric
handkerchief.
There
was
no
blood.
Mr.
Oover,
with
unpunctured
shirt-front,
was
repeating
“I
say
he
was
not
a
white
man.”
And
Greddon
remembered
himself--remembered
he
was
only
a
ghost,
impalpable,
impotent,
of
no
account.
“But
I
shall
meet
you
in
Hell
to-morrow,”
he
hissed
in
Oover’s
face.
And
there
he
was
wrong.
It
is
quite
certain
that
Oover
went
to
Heaven.
*
As
Edward
VII.
was
at
this
time
on
the
throne,
it
must
have
been
to
George
III.
that
Mr.
Greddon
was
referring.
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