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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
120
“Something,
yes.
But
what?”
“Isn’t
it
plain?”
Lightly
she
touched
the
lobe
of
her
left
ear.
“Aren’t
you
flattered?”
He
knew
now
what
made
the
difference.
It
was
that
her
little
face
was
flanked
by
two
black
pearls.
“Think,”
said
she,
“how
deeply
I
must
have
been
brooding
over
you
since
we
parted!”
“Is
this
really,”
he
asked,
pointing
to
the
left
ear-ring,
“the
pearl
you
wore
to-day?”
“Yes.
Isn’t
it
strange?
A
man
ought
to
be
pleased
when
a
woman
goes
quite
unconsciously
into
mourning
for
him--goes
just
because
she
really
does
mourn
him.”
“I
am
more
than
pleased.
I
am
touched.
When
did
the
change
come?”
“I
don’t
know.
I
only
noticed
it
after
dinner,
when
I
saw
myself
in
the
mirror.
All
through
dinner
I
had
been
thinking
of
you
and
of--well,
of
to-morrow.
And
this
dear
sensitive
pink
pearl
had
again
expressed
my
soul.
And
there
was
I,
in
a
yellow
gown
with
green
embroideries,
gay
as
a
jacamar,
jarring
hideously
on
myself.
I
covered
my
eyes
and
rushed
upstairs,
rang
the
bell
and
tore
my
things
off.
My
maid
was
very
cross.”
Cross!
The
Duke
was
shot
through
with
envy
of
one
who
was
in
a
position
to
be
unkind
to
Zuleika.
“Happy
maid!”
he
murmured.
Zuleika
replied
that
he
was
stealing
her
thunder:
hadn’t
she
envied
the
girl
at
his
lodgings?
“But
I,”
she
said,
“wanted
only
to
serve
you
in
meekness.
The
idea
of
ever
being
pert
to
you
didn’t
enter
into
my
head.
You
show
a
side
of
your
character
as
unpleasing
as
it
was
unforeseen.”
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