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290
Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
109
Nobody
held
up
a
hand.
“As
I
feared,”
said
the
Duke,
knowing
not
that
if
a
hand
had
been
held
up
he
would
have
taken
it
as
a
personal
insult.
No
man
really
in
love
can
forgive
another
for
not
sharing
his
ardour.
His
jealousy
for
himself
when
his
beloved
prefers
another
man
is
hardly
a
stronger
passion
than
his
jealousy
for
her
when
she
is
not
preferred
to
all
other
women.
“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.”
“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.
And
so,
slowly,
calmly,
he
told
to
his
fellow-diners
just
what
he
had
told
a
few
hours
earlier
to
those
two
young
men
in
Salt
Cellar.
Not
knowing
that
his
words
had
already
been
spread
throughout
Oxford,
he
was
rather
surprised
that
they
seemed
to
make
no
sensation.
Quite
flat,
too,
fell
his
appeal
that
the
syren
be
shunned
by
all.
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