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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
137
The
Duke
blushed
to
think
what
these
men
thought
of
her.
Would
love
were
blind!
These
her
lovers
were
doubtless
judging
her.
They
forgave
her--confound
their
impudence!--because
of
her
beauty.
The
banality
of
her
performance
was
an
added
grace.
It
made
her
piteous.
Damn
them,
they
were
sorry
for
her.
Little
Noaks
was
squatting
in
the
front
row,
peering
up
at
her
through
his
spectacles.
Noaks
was
as
sorry
for
her
as
the
rest
of
them.
Why
didn’t
the
earth
yawn
and
swallow
them
all
up?
Our
hero’s
unreasoning
rage
was
fed
by
a
not
unreasonable
jealousy.
It
was
clear
to
him
that
Zuleika
had
forgotten
his
existence.
To-day,
as
soon
as
he
had
killed
her
love,
she
had
shown
him
how
much
less
to
her
was
his
love
than
the
crowd’s.
And
now
again
it
was
only
the
crowd
she
cared
for.
He
followed
with
his
eyes
her
long
slender
figure
as
she
threaded
her
way
in
and
out
of
the
crowd,
sinuously,
confidingly,
producing
a
penny
from
one
lad’s
elbow,
a
threepenny-bit
from
between
another’s
neck
and
collar,
half
a
crown
from
another’s
hair,
and
always
repeating
in
that
flute-like
voice
of
hers
“Well,
this
is
rather
queer!”
Hither
and
thither
she
fared,
her
neck
and
arms
gleaming
white
from
the
luminous
blackness
of
her
dress,
in
the
luminous
blueness
of
the
night.
At
a
distance,
she
might
have
been
a
wraith;
or
a
breeze
made
visible;
a
vagrom
breeze,
warm
and
delicate,
and
in
league
with
death.
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