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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
147
He
had
told
her
she
was
afraid
of
life.
Life!--to
have
herself
caressed
by
HIM;
humbly
to
devote
herself
to
being
humbly
doted
on;
to
be
the
slave
of
a
slave;
to
swim
in
a
private
pond
of
treacle--ugh!
If
the
thought
weren’t
so
cloying
and
degrading,
it
would
be
laughable.
For
a
moment
her
hands
hovered
over
those
two
golden
and
gemmed
volumes
encasing
Bradshaw
and
the
A.B.C.
Guide.
To
leave
Oxford
by
an
early
train,
leave
him
to
drown
unthanked,
unlooked
at...
But
this
could
not
be
done
without
slighting
all
those
hundreds
of
other
men
...
And
besides...
Again
that
sound
on
the
window-pane.
This
time
it
startled
her.
There
seemed
to
be
no
rain.
Could
it
have
been--little
bits
of
gravel?
She
darted
noiselessly
to
the
window,
pushed
it
open,
and
looked
down.
She
saw
the
upturned
face
of
the
Duke.
She
stepped
back,
trembling
with
fury,
staring
around
her.
Inspiration
came.
She
thrust
her
head
out
again.
“Are
you
there?”
she
whispered.
“Yes,
yes.
I
knew
you
would
come.”
“Wait
a
moment,
wait!”
The
water-jug
stood
where
she
had
left
it,
on
the
floor
by
the
wash-stand.
It
was
almost
full,
rather
heavy.
She
bore
it
steadily
to
the
window,
and
looked
out.
“Come
a
little
nearer!”
she
whispered.
The
upturned
and
moonlit
face
obeyed
her.
She
saw
its
lips
forming
the
word
“Zuleika.”
She
took
careful
aim.
Full
on
the
face
crashed
the
cascade
of
moonlit
water,
shooting
out
on
all
sides
like
the
petals
of
some
great
silver
anemone.
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