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290
Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
117
IX
Across
the
Front
Quadrangle,
heedless
of
the
great
crowd
to
right
and
left,
Dorset
rushed.
Up
the
stone
steps
to
the
Hall
he
bounded,
and
only
on
the
Hall’s
threshold
was
he
brought
to
a
pause.
The
doorway
was
blocked
by
the
backs
of
youths
who
had
by
hook
and
crook
secured
standing-room.
The
whole
scene
was
surprisingly
unlike
that
of
the
average
College
concert.
“Let
me
pass,”
said
the
Duke,
rather
breathlessly.
“Thank
you.
Make
way
please.
Thanks.”
And
with
quick-pulsing
heart
he
made
his
way
down
the
aisle
to
the
front
row.
There
awaited
him
a
surprise
that
was
like
a
douche
of
cold
water
full
in
his
face.
Zuleika
was
not
there!
It
had
never
occurred
to
him
that
she
herself
might
not
be
punctual.
The
Warden
was
there,
reading
his
programme
with
an
air
of
great
solemnity.
“Where,”
asked
the
Duke,
“is
your
grand-daughter?”
His
tone
was
as
of
a
man
saying
“If
she
is
dead,
don’t
break
it
gently
to
me.”
“My
grand-daughter?”
said
the
Warden.
“Ah,
Duke,
good
evening.”
“She’s
not
ill?”
“Oh
no,
I
think
not.
She
said
something
about
changing
the
dress
she
wore
at
dinner.
She
will
come.”
And
the
Warden
thanked
his
young
friend
for
the
great
kindness
he
had
shown
to
Zuleika.
He
hoped
the
Duke
had
not
let
her
worry
him
with
her
artless
prattle.
“She
seems
to
be
a
good,
amiable
girl,”
he
added,
in
his
detached
way.
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