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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
132
“And
YOU
are
the
most
d-dis-disobliging
and
the
unkindest
and
the
b-beastliest
person
I
ever
met,”
Zuleika
sobbed
at
him
through
her
hands.
The
MacQuern
glared
reproaches
at
him.
So
did
Melisande,
who
had
just
appeared
through
the
postern,
holding
in
her
arms
the
great
casket
of
malachite.
A
painful
scene;
and
the
Duke
gave
in.
He
said
he
would
do
anything--anything.
Peace
was
restored.
The
MacQuern
had
relieved
Melisande
of
her
burden;
and
to
him
was
the
privilege
of
bearing
it,
in
procession
with
his
adored
and
her
quelled
mentor,
towards
the
Hall.
Zuleika
babbled
like
a
child
going
to
a
juvenile
party.
This
was
the
great
night,
as
yet,
in
her
life.
Illustrious
enough
already
it
had
seemed
to
her,
as
eve
of
that
ultimate
flattery
vowed
her
by
the
Duke.
So
fine
a
thing
had
his
doom
seemed
to
her--his
doom
alone--that
it
had
sufficed
to
flood
her
pink
pearl
with
the
right
hue.
And
now
not
on
him
alone
need
she
ponder.
Now
he
was
but
the
centre
of
a
group--a
group
that
might
grow
and
grow--a
group
that
might
with
a
little
encouragement
be
a
multitude...
With
such
hopes
dimly
whirling
in
the
recesses
of
her
soul,
her
beautiful
red
lips
babbled.
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