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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
175
In
the
hand
that
was
not
on
her
hip
she
carried
a
letter.
And
on
her
shoulders
she
had
to
bear
the
full
burden
of
the
hatred
that
Zuleika
had
inspired
in
Katie.
But
this
she
did
not
know.
She
came
glancing
boldly,
leisurely,
at
the
numbers
on
the
front-doors.
Katie
stepped
back
on
to
the
doorstep,
lest
the
inferiority
of
her
stature
should
mar
the
effect
of
her
disdain.
“Good-day.
Is
it
here
that
Duke
D’Orsay
lives?”
asked
Melisande,
as
nearly
accurate
as
a
Gaul
may
be
in
such
matters.
“The
Duke
of
Dorset,”
said
Katie
with
a
cold
and
insular
emphasis,
“lives
here.”
And
“You,”
she
tried
to
convey
with
her
eyes,
“you,
for
all
your
smart
black
silk,
are
a
hireling.
I
am
Miss
Batch.
I
happen
to
have
a
hobby
for
housework.
I
have
not
been
crying.”
“Then
please
mount
this
to
him
at
once,”
said
Melisande,
holding
out
the
letter.
“It
is
from
Miss
Dobson’s
part.
Very
express.
I
wait
response.”
“You
are
very
ugly,”
Katie
signalled
with
her
eyes.
“I
am
very
pretty.
I
have
the
Oxfordshire
complexion.
And
I
play
the
piano.”
With
her
lips
she
said
merely,
“His
Grace
is
not
called
before
nine
o’clock.”
“But
to-day
you
go
wake
him
now--quick--is
it
not?”
“Quite
out
of
the
question,”
said
Katie.
“If
you
care
to
leave
that
letter
here,
I
will
see
that
it
is
placed
on
his
Grace’s
breakfast-table,
with
the
morning’s
post.”
“For
the
rest,”
added
her
eyes,
“Down
with
France!”
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