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290
Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
145
They
were
in
Salt
Cellar
now.
“Melisande!”
she
called
up
to
her
window.
“Hush!”
said
the
Duke,
“I
have
something
to
say
to
you.”
“Well,
you
can
say
it
all
the
better
without
that
great
box
in
your
hands.
I
want
my
maid
to
carry
it
up
to
my
room
for
me.”
And
again
she
called
out
for
Melisande,
and
received
no
answer.
“I
suppose
she’s
in
the
house-keeper’s
room
or
somewhere.
You
had
better
put
the
box
down
inside
the
door.
She
can
bring
it
up
later.”
She
pushed
open
the
postern;
and
the
Duke,
as
he
stepped
across
the
threshold,
thrilled
with
a
romantic
awe.
Re-emerging
a
moment
later
into
the
moonlight,
he
felt
that
she
had
been
right
about
the
box:
it
was
fatal
to
self-expression;
and
he
was
glad
he
had
not
tried
to
speak
on
the
way
from
the
Front
Quad:
the
soul
needs
gesture;
and
the
Duke’s
first
gesture
now
was
to
seize
Zuleika’s
hands
in
his.
She
was
too
startled
to
move.
“Zuleika!”
he
whispered.
She
was
too
angry
to
speak,
but
with
a
sudden
twist
she
freed
her
wrists
and
darted
back.
He
laughed.
“You
are
afraid
of
me.
You
are
afraid
to
let
me
kiss
you,
because
you
are
afraid
of
loving
me.
This
afternoon--here--I
all
but
kissed
you.
I
mistook
you
for
Death.
I
was
enamoured
of
Death.
I
was
a
fool.
That
is
what
YOU
are,
you
incomparable
darling:
you
are
a
fool.
You
are
afraid
of
life.
I
am
not.
I
love
life.
I
am
going
to
live
for
you,
do
you
hear?”
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