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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
156
What
were
his
thoughts
in
that
interval,
what
words,
if
any,
he
uttered
to
the
night,
never
will
be
known.
For
this,
Clio
has
abused
me
in
language
less
befitting
a
Muse
than
a
fishwife.
I
do
not
care.
I
would
rather
be
chidden
by
Clio
than
by
my
own
sense
of
delicacy,
any
day.
XII
Not
less
averse
than
from
dogging
the
Duke
was
I
from
remaining
another
instant
in
the
presence
of
Miss
Dobson.
There
seemed
to
be
no
possible
excuse
for
her.
This
time
she
had
gone
too
far.
She
was
outrageous.
As
soon
as
the
Duke
had
had
time
to
get
clear
away,
I
floated
out
into
the
night.
I
may
have
consciously
reasoned
that
the
best
way
to
forget
the
present
was
in
the
revival
of
memories.
Or
I
may
have
been
driven
by
a
mere
homing
instinct.
Anyhow,
it
was
in
the
direction
of
my
old
College
that
I
went.
Midnight
was
tolling
as
I
floated
in
through
the
shut
grim
gate
at
which
I
had
so
often
stood
knocking
for
admission.
The
man
who
now
occupied
my
room
had
sported
his
oak--my
oak.
I
read
the
name
on
the
visiting-card
attached
thereto--E.
J.
Craddock--and
went
in.
E.
J.
Craddock,
interloper,
was
sitting
at
my
table,
with
elbows
squared
and
head
on
one
side,
in
the
act
of
literary
composition.
The
oars
and
caps
on
my
walls
betokened
him
a
rowing-man.
Indeed,
I
recognised
his
somewhat
heavy
face
as
that
of
the
man
whom,
from
the
Judas
barge
this
afternoon,
I
had
seen
rowing
“stroke”
in
my
College
Eight.
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