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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
154
It
was
fun
to
float
all
unseen,
to
float
all
unhampered
by
any
corporeal
nonsense,
up
and
down
the
platform.
It
was
fun
to
watch
the
inmost
thoughts
of
the
station-master,
of
the
porters,
of
the
young
person
at
the
buffet.
But
of
course
I
did
not
let
the
holiday-mood
master
me.
I
realised
the
seriousness
of
my
mission.
I
must
concentrate
myself
on
the
matter
in
hand:
Miss
Dobson’s
visit.
What
was
going
to
happen?
Prescience
was
no
part
of
my
outfit.
From
what
I
knew
about
Miss
Dobson,
I
deduced
that
she
would
be
a
great
success.
That
was
all.
Had
I
had
the
instinct
that
was
given
to
those
Emperors
in
stone,
and
even
to
the
dog
Corker,
I
should
have
begged
Clio
to
send
in
my
stead
some
man
of
stronger
nerve.
She
had
charged
me
to
be
calmly
vigilant,
scrupulously
fair.
I
could
have
been
neither,
had
I
from
the
outset
foreseen
all.
Only
because
the
immediate
future
was
broken
to
me
by
degrees,
first
as
a
set
of
possibilities,
then
as
a
set
of
probabilities
that
yet
might
not
come
off,
was
I
able
to
fulfil
the
trust
imposed
in
me.
Even
so,
it
was
hard.
I
had
always
accepted
the
doctrine
that
to
understand
all
is
to
forgive
all.
Thanks
to
Zeus,
I
understood
all
about
Miss
Dobson,
and
yet
there
were
moments
when
she
repelled
me--moments
when
I
wished
to
see
her
neither
from
without
nor
from
within.
So
soon
as
the
Duke
of
Dorset
met
her
on
the
Monday
night,
I
felt
I
was
in
duty
bound
to
keep
him
under
constant
surveillance.
Yet
there
were
moments
when
I
was
so
sorry
for
him
that
I
deemed
myself
a
brute
for
shadowing
him.
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