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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
131
“To
die
for
me?
To-morrow?”
“To-morrow.
After
the
Eights,
I
suppose;
at
the
same
time
as
the
Duke.
It
wouldn’t
do
to
leave
the
races
undecided.”
“Of
COURSE
not.
But
the
poor
dears!
It
is
too
touching!
I
have
done
nothing,
nothing
to
deserve
it.”
“Nothing
whatsoever,”
said
the
Duke
drily.
“Oh
HE,”
said
Zuleika,
“thinks
me
an
unredeemed
brute;
just
because
I
don’t
love
him.
YOU,
dear
Mr.
MacQuern--does
one
call
you
‘Mr.’?
‘The’
would
sound
so
odd
in
the
vocative.
And
I
can’t
very
well
call
you
‘MacQuern’--YOU
don’t
think
me
unkind,
do
you?
I
simply
can’t
bear
to
think
of
all
these
young
lives
cut
short
without
my
having
done
a
thing
to
brighten
them.
What
can
I
do?--what
can
I
do
to
show
my
gratitude?”
An
idea
struck
her.
She
looked
up
to
the
lit
window
of
her
room.
“Melisande!”
she
called.
A
figure
appeared
at
the
window.
“Mademoiselle
desire?”
“My
tricks,
Melisande!
Bring
down
the
box,
quick!”
She
turned
excitedly
to
the
two
young
men.
“It
is
all
I
can
do
in
return,
you
see.
If
I
could
dance
for
them,
I
would.
If
I
could
sing,
I
would
sing
to
them.
I
do
what
I
can.
You,”
she
said
to
the
Duke,
“must
go
on
to
the
platform
and
announce
it.”
“Announce
what?”
“Why,
that
I
am
going
to
do
my
tricks!
All
you
need
say
is
‘Ladies
and
gentlemen,
I
have
the
pleasure
to--’
What
is
the
matter
now?”
“You
make
me
feel
slightly
unwell,”
said
the
Duke.
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