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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
146
She
stood
with
her
back
to
the
postern.
Anger
in
her
eyes
had
given
place
to
scorn.
“You
mean,”
she
said,
“that
you
go
back
on
your
promise?”
“You
will
release
me
from
it.”
“You
mean
you
are
afraid
to
die?”
“You
will
not
be
guilty
of
my
death.
You
love
me.”
“Good
night,
you
miserable
coward.”
She
stepped
back
through
the
postern.
“Don’t,
Zuleika!
Miss
Dobson,
don’t!
Pull
yourself
together!
Reflect!
I
implore
you...
You
will
repent...”
Slowly
she
closed
the
postern
on
him.
“You
will
repent.
I
shall
wait
here,
under
your
window...”
He
heard
a
bolt
rasped
into
its
socket.
He
heard
the
retreat
of
a
light
tread
on
the
paven
hall.
And
he
hadn’t
even
kissed
her!
That
was
his
first
thought.
He
ground
his
heel
in
the
gravel.
And
he
had
hurt
her
wrists!
This
was
Zuleika’s
first
thought,
as
she
came
into
her
bedroom.
Yes,
there
were
two
red
marks
where
he
had
held
her.
No
man
had
ever
dared
to
lay
hands
on
her.
With
a
sense
of
contamination,
she
proceeded
to
wash
her
hands
thoroughly
with
soap
and
water.
From
time
to
time
such
words
as
“cad”
and
“beast”
came
through
her
teeth.
She
dried
her
hands
and
flung
herself
into
a
chair,
arose
and
went
pacing
the
room.
So
this
was
the
end
of
her
great
night!
What
had
she
done
to
deserve
it?
How
had
he
dared?
There
was
a
sound
as
of
rain
against
the
window.
She
was
glad.
The
night
needed
cleansing.
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