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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
121
“Perhaps
then,”
said
the
Duke,
“it
is
as
well
that
I
am
going
to
die.”
She
acknowledged
his
rebuke
with
a
pretty
gesture
of
penitence.
“You
may
have
been
faultless
in
love,”
he
added;
“but
you
would
not
have
laid
down
your
life
for
me.”
“Oh,”
she
answered,
“wouldn’t
I
though?
You
don’t
know
me.
That
is
just
the
sort
of
thing
I
should
have
loved
to
do.
I
am
much
more
romantic
than
you
are,
really.
I
wonder,”
she
said,
glancing
at
his
breast,
“if
YOUR
pink
pearl
would
have
turned
black?
And
I
wonder
if
YOU
would
have
taken
the
trouble
to
change
that
extraordinary
coat
you
are
wearing?”
In
sooth,
no
costume
could
have
been
more
beautifully
Cimmerian
than
Zuleika’s.
And
yet,
thought
the
Duke,
watching
her
as
the
concert
proceeded,
the
effect
of
her
was
not
lugubrious.
Her
darkness
shone.
The
black
satin
gown
she
wore
was
a
stream
of
shifting
high-lights.
Big
black
diamonds
were
around
her
throat
and
wrists,
and
tiny
black
diamonds
starred
the
fan
she
wielded.
In
her
hair
gleamed
a
great
raven’s
wing.
And
brighter,
brighter
than
all
these
were
her
eyes.
Assuredly
no,
there
was
nothing
morbid
about
her.
Would
one
even
(wondered
the
Duke,
for
a
disloyal
instant)
go
so
far
as
to
say
she
was
heartless?
Ah
no,
she
was
merely
strong.
She
was
one
who
could
tread
the
tragic
plane
without
stumbling,
and
be
resilient
in
the
valley
of
the
shadow.
What
she
had
just
said
was
no
more
than
the
truth:
she
would
have
loved
to
die
for
him,
had
he
not
forfeited
her
heart.
She
would
have
asked
no
tears.
That
she
had
none
to
shed
for
him
now,
that
she
did
but
share
his
exhilaration,
was
the
measure
of
her
worthiness
to
have
the
homage
of
his
self-slaughter.
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