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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
139
It
she
took
from
the
table,
and,
holding
it
aloft,
cried
“Now,
before
I
say
good
night,
I
want
to
see
if
I
have
your
confidence.
But
you
mustn’t
think
this
is
the
confidence
trick!”
She
handed
the
vessel
to
The
MacQuern,
who,
looking
like
an
overgrown
acolyte,
bore
it
after
her
as
she
went
again
among
the
audience.
Pausing
before
a
man
in
the
front
row,
she
asked
him
if
he
would
trust
her
with
his
watch.
He
held
it
out
to
her.
“Thank
you,”
she
said,
letting
her
fingers
touch
his
for
a
moment
before
she
dropped
it
into
the
Magic
Canister.
From
another
man
she
borrowed
a
cigarette-case,
from
another
a
neck-tie,
from
another
a
pair
of
sleeve-links,
from
Noaks
a
ring--one
of
those
iron
rings
which
are
supposed,
rightly
or
wrongly,
to
alleviate
rheumatism.
And
when
she
had
made
an
ample
selection,
she
began
her
return-journey
to
the
table.
On
her
way
she
saw
in
the
shadow
of
the
wall
the
figure
of
her
forgotten
Duke.
She
saw
him,
the
one
man
she
had
ever
loved,
also
the
first
man
who
had
wished
definitely
to
die
for
her;
and
she
was
touched
by
remorse.
She
had
said
she
would
remember
him
to
her
dying
day;
and
already...
But
had
he
not
refused
her
the
wherewithal
to
remember
him--the
pearls
she
needed
as
the
clou
of
her
dear
collection,
the
great
relic
among
relics?
“Would
you
trust
me
with
your
studs?”
she
asked
him,
in
a
voice
that
could
be
heard
throughout
the
quadrangle,
with
a
smile
that
was
for
him
alone.
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