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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
142
The
ladies
on
the
steps
of
the
Hall
moved
down
into
the
quadrangle,
spreading
their
resentment
like
a
miasma.
The
tragic
passion
of
the
crowd
was
merged
in
mere
awkwardness.
There
was
a
general
movement
towards
the
College
gate.
Zuleika
was
putting
her
tricks
back
into
the
great
casket,
The
MacQuern
assisting
her.
The
Scots,
as
I
have
said,
are
a
shy
race,
but
a
resolute
and
a
self-seeking.
This
young
chieftain
had
not
yet
recovered
from
what
his
heroine
had
let
him
in
for.
But
he
did
not
lose
the
opportunity
of
asking
her
to
lunch
with
him
to-morrow.
“Delighted,”
she
said,
fitting
the
Demon
Egg-Cup
into
its
groove.
Then,
looking
up
at
him,
“Are
you
popular?”
she
asked.
“Have
you
many
friends?”
He
nodded.
She
said
he
must
invite
them
all.
This
was
a
blow
to
the
young
man,
who,
at
once
thrifty
and
infatuate,
had
planned
a
luncheon
a
deux.
“I
had
hoped--”
he
began.
“Vainly,”
she
cut
him
short.
There
was
a
pause.
“Whom
shall
I
invite,
then?”
“I
don’t
know
any
of
them.
How
should
I
have
preferences?”
She
remembered
the
Duke.
She
looked
round
and
saw
him
still
standing
in
the
shadow
of
the
wall.
He
came
towards
her.
“Of
course,”
she
said
hastily
to
her
host,
“you
must
ask
HIM.”
The
MacQuern
complied.
He
turned
to
the
Duke
and
told
him
that
Miss
Dobson
had
very
kindly
promised
to
lunch
with
him
to-morrow.
“And,”
said
Zuleika,
“I
simply
WON’T
unless
you
will.”
The
Duke
looked
at
her.
Had
it
not
been
arranged
that
he
and
she
should
spend
his
last
day
together?
Did
it
mean
nothing
that
she
had
given
him
her
ear-rings?
Quickly
drawing
about
him
some
remnants
of
his
tattered
pride,
he
hid
his
wound,
and
accepted
the
invitation.
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