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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
130
“You
will
do
nothing
of
the
sort,”
interposed
the
Duke.
“There,”
said
Zuleika,
still
retaining
The
MacQuern’s
hand,
“you
see,
it
is
forbidden.
You
must
not
defy
our
dear
little
Duke.
He
is
not
used
to
it.
It
is
not
done.”
“I
don’t
know,”
said
The
MacQuern,
with
a
stony
glance
at
the
Duke,
“that
he
has
anything
to
do
with
the
matter.”
“He
is
older
and
wiser
than
you.
More
a
man
of
the
world.
Regard
him
as
your
tutor.”
“Do
YOU
want
me
not
to
die
for
you?”
asked
the
young
man.
“Ah,
I
should
not
dare
to
impose
my
wishes
on
you,”
said
she,
dropping
his
hand.
“Even,”
she
added,
“if
I
knew
what
my
wishes
were.
And
I
don’t.
I
know
only
that
I
think
it
is
very,
very
beautiful
of
you
to
think
of
dying
for
me.”
“Then
that
settles
it,”
said
The
MacQuern.
“No,
no!
You
must
not
let
yourself
be
influenced
by
ME.
Besides,
I
am
not
in
a
mood
to
influence
anybody.
I
am
overwhelmed.
Tell
me,”
she
said,
heedless
of
the
Duke,
who
stood
tapping
his
heel
on
the
ground,
with
every
manifestation
of
disapproval
and
impatience,
“tell
me,
is
it
true
that
some
of
the
other
men
love
me
too,
and--feel
as
you
do?”
The
MacQuern
said
cautiously
that
he
could
answer
for
no
one
but
himself.
“But,”
he
allowed,
“I
saw
a
good
many
men
whom
I
know,
outside
the
Hall
here,
just
now,
and
they
seemed
to
have
made
up
their
minds.”
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