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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
110
Mr.
Oover,
during
his
year
of
residence,
had
been
sorely
tried
by
the
quaint
old
English
custom
of
not
making
public
speeches
after
private
dinners.
It
was
with
a
deep
sigh
of
satisfaction
that
he
now
rose
to
his
feet.
“Duke,”
he
said
in
a
low
voice,
which
yet
penetrated
to
every
corner
of
the
room,
“I
guess
I
am
voicing
these
gentlemen
when
I
say
that
your
words
show
up
your
good
heart,
all
the
time.
Your
mentality,
too,
is
bully,
as
we
all
predicate.
One
may
say
without
exaggeration
that
your
scholarly
and
social
attainments
are
a
by-word
throughout
the
solar
system,
and
be-yond.
We
rightly
venerate
you
as
our
boss.
Sir,
we
worship
the
ground
you
walk
on.
But
we
owe
a
duty
to
our
own
free
and
independent
manhood.
Sir,
we
worship
the
ground
Miss
Z.
Dobson
treads
on.
We
have
pegged
out
a
claim
right
there.
And
from
that
location
we
aren’t
to
be
budged--not
for
bob-nuts.
We
asseverate
we
squat--where--we--squat,
come--what--will.
You
say
we
have
no
chance
to
win
Miss
Z.
Dobson.
That--we--know.
We
aren’t
worthy.
We
lie
prone.
Let
her
walk
over
us.
You
say
her
heart
is
cold.
We
don’t
pro-fess
we
can
take
the
chill
off.
But,
Sir,
we
can’t
be
diverted
out
of
loving
her--not
even
by
you,
Sir.
No,
Sir!
We
love
her,
and--shall,
and--will,
Sir,
with--our--latest
breath.”
This
peroration
evoked
loud
applause.
“I
love
her,
and
shall,
and
will,”
shouted
each
man.
And
again
they
honoured
in
wine
her
image.
Sir
John
Marraby
uttered
a
cry
familiar
in
the
hunting-field.
The
MacQuern
contributed
a
few
bars
of
a
sentimental
ballad
in
the
dialect
of
his
country.
“Hurrah,
hurrah!”
shouted
Mr.
Trent-Garby.
Lord
Sayes
hummed
the
latest
waltz,
waving
his
arms
to
its
rhythm,
while
the
wine
he
had
just
spilt
on
his
shirt-front
trickled
unheeded
to
his
waistcoat.
Mr.
Oover
gave
the
Yale
cheer.
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