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290
Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
114
“But--but,”
faltered
Lord
Sayes,
“I
saw
her
saying
good-bye
to
you
in
Judas
Street.
And--and
she
looked
quite--as
if
nothing
had
happened.”
“Nothing
HAD
happened,”
said
the
Duke.
“And
she
was
very
much
pleased
to
have
me
still
with
her.
But
she
isn’t
so
cruel
as
to
hinder
me
from
dying
for
her
to-morrow.
I
don’t
think
she
exactly
fixed
the
hour.
It
shall
be
just
after
the
Eights
have
been
rowed.
An
earlier
death
would
mark
in
me
a
lack
of
courtesy
to
that
contest...
It
seems
strange
to
you
that
I
should
do
this
thing?
Take
warning
by
me.
Muster
all
your
will-power,
and
forget
Miss
Dobson.
Tear
up
your
tickets
for
the
concert.
Stay
here
and
play
cards.
Play
high.
Or
rather,
go
back
to
your
various
Colleges,
and
speed
the
news
I
have
told
you.
Put
all
Oxford
on
its
guard
against
this
woman
who
can
love
no
lover.
Let
all
Oxford
know
that
I,
Dorset,
who
had
so
much
reason
to
love
life--I,
the
nonpareil--am
going
to
die
for
the
love
I
bear
this
woman.
And
let
no
man
think
I
go
unwilling.
I
am
no
lamb
led
to
the
slaughter.
I
am
priest
as
well
as
victim.
I
offer
myself
up
with
a
pious
joy.
But
enough
of
this
cold
Hebraism!
It
is
ill-attuned
to
my
soul’s
mood.
Self-sacrifice--bah!
Regard
me
as
a
voluptuary.
I
am
that.
All
my
baffled
ardour
speeds
me
to
the
bosom
of
Death.
She
is
gentle
and
wanton.
She
knows
I
could
never
have
loved
her
for
her
own
sake.
She
has
no
illusions
about
me.
She
knows
well
I
come
to
her
because
not
otherwise
may
I
quench
my
passion.”
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