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290
Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
144
As
he
disappeared
into
the
porch,
Zuleika
turned
to
the
Duke.
“You
were
splendid,”
she
said
softly.
He
knew
that
very
well.
Does
the
stag
in
his
hour
of
victory
need
a
diploma
from
the
hind?
Holding
in
his
hands
the
malachite
casket
that
was
the
symbol
of
his
triumph,
the
Duke
smiled
dictatorially
at
his
darling.
He
came
near
to
thinking
of
her
as
a
chattel.
Then
with
a
pang
he
remembered
his
abject
devotion
to
her.
Abject
no
longer
though!
The
victory
he
had
just
won
restored
his
manhood,
his
sense
of
supremacy
among
his
fellows.
He
loved
this
woman
on
equal
terms.
She
was
transcendent?
So
was
he,
Dorset.
To-night
the
world
had
on
its
moonlit
surface
two
great
ornaments--Zuleika
and
himself.
Neither
of
the
pair
could
be
replaced.
Was
one
of
them
to
be
shattered?
Life
and
love
were
good.
He
had
been
mad
to
think
of
dying.
No
word
was
spoken
as
they
went
together
to
Salt
Cellar.
She
expected
him
to
talk
about
her
conjuring
tricks.
Could
he
have
been
disappointed?
She
dared
not
inquire;
for
she
had
the
sensitiveness,
though
no
other
quality
whatsoever,
of
the
true
artist.
She
felt
herself
aggrieved.
She
had
half
a
mind
to
ask
him
to
give
her
back
her
ear-rings.
And
by
the
way,
he
hadn’t
yet
thanked
her
for
them!
Well,
she
would
make
allowances
for
a
condemned
man.
And
again
she
remembered
the
omen
of
which
he
had
told
her.
She
looked
at
him,
and
then
up
into
the
sky.
“This
same
moon,”
she
said
to
herself,
“sees
the
battlements
of
Tankerton.
Does
she
see
two
black
owls
there?
Does
she
hear
them
hooting?”
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