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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
124
And
Zuleika
returned
his
gaze
with
a
smile
not
less
gay.
She
was
not
sure
what
he
was
playing.
But
she
assumed
that
it
was
for
her,
and
that
the
music
had
some
reference
to
his
impending
death.
She
was
one
of
the
people
who
say
“I
don’t
know
anything
about
music
really,
but
I
know
what
I
like.”
And
she
liked
this;
and
she
beat
time
to
it
with
her
fan.
She
thought
her
Duke
looked
very
handsome.
She
was
proud
of
him.
Strange
that
this
time
yesterday
she
had
been
wildly
in
love
with
him!
Strange,
too,
that
this
time
to-morrow
he
would
be
dead!
She
was
immensely
glad
she
had
saved
him
this
afternoon.
To-morrow!
There
came
back
to
her
what
he
had
told
her
about
the
omen
at
Tankerton,
that
stately
home:
“On
the
eve
of
the
death
of
a
Duke
of
Dorset,
two
black
owls
come
always
and
perch
on
the
battlements.
They
remain
there
through
the
night,
hooting.
At
dawn
they
fly
away,
none
knows
whither.”
Perhaps,
thought
she,
at
this
very
moment
these
two
birds
were
on
the
battlements.
The
music
ceased.
In
the
hush
that
followed
it,
her
applause
rang
sharp
and
notable.
Not
so
Chopin’s.
Of
him
and
his
intense
excitement
none
but
his
companion
was
aware.
“Plus
fin
que
Pachmann!”
he
reiterated,
waving
his
arms
wildly,
and
dancing.
“Tu
auras
une
migraine
affreuse.
Rentrons,
petit
coeur!”
said
George
Sand,
gently
but
firmly.
“Laisse-moi
le
saluer,”
cried
the
composer,
struggling
in
her
grasp.
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