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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
143
“It
seems
a
shame,”
said
Zuleika
to
The
MacQuern,
“to
ask
you
to
bring
this
great
heavy
box
all
the
way
back
again.
But--”
Those
last
poor
rags
of
pride
fell
away
now.
The
Duke
threw
a
prehensile
hand
on
the
casket,
and,
coldly
glaring
at
The
MacQuern,
pointed
with
his
other
hand
towards
the
College
gate.
He,
and
he
alone,
was
going
to
see
Zuleika
home.
It
was
his
last
night
on
earth,
and
he
was
not
to
be
trifled
with.
Such
was
the
message
of
his
eyes.
The
Scotsman’s
flashed
back
a
precisely
similar
message.
Men
had
fought
for
Zuleika,
but
never
in
her
presence.
Her
eyes
dilated.
She
had
not
the
slightest
impulse
to
throw
herself
between
the
two
antagonists.
Indeed,
she
stepped
back,
so
as
not
to
be
in
the
way.
A
short
sharp
fight--how
much
better
that
is
than
bad
blood!
She
hoped
the
better
man
would
win;
and
(do
not
misjudge
her)
she
rather
hoped
this
man
was
the
Duke.
It
occurred
to
her--a
vague
memory
of
some
play
or
picture--that
she
ought
to
be
holding
aloft
a
candelabra
of
lit
tapers;
no,
that
was
only
done
indoors,
and
in
the
eighteenth
century.
Ought
she
to
hold
a
sponge?
Idle,
these
speculations
of
hers,
and
based
on
complete
ignorance
of
the
manners
and
customs
of
undergraduates.
The
Duke
and
The
MacQuern
would
never
have
come
to
blows
in
the
presence
of
a
lady.
Their
conflict
was
necessarily
spiritual.
And
it
was
the
Scotsman,
Scots
though
he
was,
who
had
to
yield.
Cowed
by
something
demoniac
in
the
will-power
pitted
against
his,
he
found
himself
retreating
in
the
direction
indicated
by
the
Duke’s
forefinger.
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