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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
174
And
this
morning,
while
she
knelt
swaying
and
spreading
over
“his”
doorstep,
her
blue
eyes
added
certain
tears
to
be
scrubbed
away
in
the
general
moisture
of
the
stone.
Rising,
she
dried
her
hands
in
her
apron,
and
dried
her
eyes
with
her
hands.
Lest
her
mother
should
see
that
she
had
been
crying,
she
loitered
outside
the
door.
Suddenly,
her
roving
glance
changed
to
a
stare
of
acute
hostility.
She
knew
well
that
the
person
wandering
towards
her
was--no,
not
“that
Miss
Dobson,”
as
she
had
for
the
fraction
of
an
instant
supposed,
but
the
next
worst
thing.
It
has
been
said
that
Melisande
indoors
was
an
evidently
French
maid.
Out
of
doors
she
was
not
less
evidently
Zuleika’s.
Not
that
she
aped
her
mistress.
The
resemblance
had
come
by
force
of
propinquity
and
devotion.
Nature
had
laid
no
basis
for
it.
Not
one
point
of
form
or
colour
had
the
two
women
in
common.
It
has
been
said
that
Zuleika
was
not
strictly
beautiful.
Melisande,
like
most
Frenchwomen,
was
strictly
plain.
But
in
expression
and
port,
in
her
whole
tournure,
she
had
become,
as
every
good
maid
does,
her
mistress’
replica.
The
poise
of
her
head,
the
boldness
of
her
regard
and
brilliance
of
her
smile,
the
leisurely
and
swinging
way
in
which
she
walked,
with
a
hand
on
the
hip--all
these
things
of
hers
were
Zuleika’s
too.
She
was
no
conqueror.
None
but
the
man
to
whom
she
was
betrothed--a
waiter
at
the
Cafe
Tourtel,
named
Pelleas--had
ever
paid
court
to
her;
nor
was
she
covetous
of
other
hearts.
Yet
she
looked
victorious,
and
insatiable
of
victories,
and
“terrible
as
an
army
with
banners.”
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