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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
13
She
thought
she
had
genius,
and
she
liked
to
be
told
that
this
was
so.
But
mainly
she
loved
her
work
as
a
means
of
mere
self-display.
The
frank
admiration
which,
into
whatsoever
house
she
entered,
the
grown-up
sons
flashed
on
her;
their
eagerness
to
see
her
to
the
door;
their
impressive
way
of
putting
her
into
her
omnibus--these
were
the
things
she
revelled
in.
She
was
a
nymph
to
whom
men’s
admiration
was
the
greater
part
of
life.
By
day,
whenever
she
went
into
the
streets,
she
was
conscious
that
no
man
passed
her
without
a
stare;
and
this
consciousness
gave
a
sharp
zest
to
her
outings.
Sometimes
she
was
followed
to
her
door--crude
flattery
which
she
was
too
innocent
to
fear.
Even
when
she
went
into
the
haberdasher’s
to
make
some
little
purchase
of
tape
or
riband,
or
into
the
grocer’s--for
she
was
an
epicure
in
her
humble
way--to
buy
a
tin
of
potted
meat
for
her
supper,
the
homage
of
the
young
men
behind
the
counter
did
flatter
and
exhilarate
her.
As
the
homage
of
men
became
for
her,
more
and
more,
a
matter
of
course,
the
more
subtly
necessary
was
it
to
her
happiness.
The
more
she
won
of
it,
the
more
she
treasured
it.
She
was
alone
in
the
world,
and
it
saved
her
from
any
moment
of
regret
that
she
had
neither
home
nor
friends.
For
her
the
streets
that
lay
around
her
had
no
squalor,
since
she
paced
them
always
in
the
gold
nimbus
of
her
fascinations.
Her
bedroom
seemed
not
mean
nor
lonely
to
her,
since
the
little
square
of
glass,
nailed
above
the
wash-stand,
was
ever
there
to
reflect
her
face.
Thereinto,
indeed,
she
was
ever
peering.
She
would
droop
her
head
from
side
to
side,
she
would
bend
it
forward
and
see
herself
from
beneath
her
eyelashes,
then
tilt
it
back
and
watch
herself
over
her
supercilious
chin.
And
she
would
smile,
frown,
pout,
languish--let
all
the
emotions
hover
upon
her
face;
and
always
she
seemed
to
herself
lovelier
than
she
had
ever
been.
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