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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
163
He
stood
with
his
head
flung
back
and
his
arms
folded,
gorgeous
in
a
dressing-gown
of
crimson
brocade.
In
animation
of
pride
and
pomp,
he
looked
less
like
a
mortal
man
than
like
a
figure
from
some
great
biblical
group
by
Paul
Veronese.
And
this
was
he
whom
I
had
presumed
to
pity!
And
this
was
he
whom
I
had
half
expected
to
find
dead.
His
face,
usually
pale,
was
now
red;
and
his
hair,
which
no
eye
had
ever
yet
seen
disordered,
stood
up
in
a
glistening
shock.
These
two
changes
in
him
intensified
the
effect
of
vitality.
One
of
them,
however,
vanished
as
I
watched
it.
The
Duke’s
face
resumed
its
pallor.
I
realised
then
that
he
had
but
blushed;
and
I
realised,
simultaneously,
that
what
had
called
that
blush
to
his
cheek
was
what
had
also
been
the
signal
to
me
that
he
was
alive.
His
blush
had
been
a
pendant
to
his
sneeze.
And
his
sneeze
had
been
a
pendant
to
that
outrage
which
he
had
been
striving
to
forget.
He
had
caught
cold.
He
had
caught
cold.
In
the
hour
of
his
soul’s
bitter
need,
his
body
had
been
suborned
against
him.
Base!
Had
he
not
stripped
his
body
of
its
wet
vesture?
Had
he
not
vigorously
dried
his
hair,
and
robed
himself
in
crimson,
and
struck
in
solitude
such
attitudes
as
were
most
congruous
with
his
high
spirit
and
high
rank?
He
had
set
himself
to
crush
remembrance
of
that
by
which
through
his
body
his
soul
had
been
assailed.
And
well
had
he
known
that
in
this
conflict
a
giant
demon
was
his
antagonist.
But
that
his
own
body
would
play
traitor--no,
this
he
had
not
foreseen.
This
was
too
base
a
thing
to
be
foreseen.
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