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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
176
“I
find
you
droll,
but
droll,
my
little
one!”
cried
Melisande.
Katie
stepped
back
and
shut
the
door
in
her
face.
“Like
a
little
Empress,”
the
Emperors
commented.
The
Frenchwoman
threw
up
her
hands
and
apostrophised
heaven.
To
this
day
she
believes
that
all
the
bonnes
of
Oxford
are
mad,
but
mad,
and
of
a
madness.
She
stared
at
the
door,
at
the
pail
and
scrubbing-brush
that
had
been
shut
out
with
her,
at
the
letter
in
her
hand.
She
decided
that
she
had
better
drop
the
letter
into
the
slit
in
the
door
and
make
report
to
Miss
Dobson.
As
the
envelope
fell
through
the
slit
to
the
door-mat,
Katie
made
at
Melisande
a
grimace
which,
had
not
the
panels
been
opaque,
would
have
astonished
the
Emperors.
Resuming
her
dignity,
she
picked
the
thing
up,
and,
at
arm’s
length,
examined
it.
It
was
inscribed
in
pencil.
Katie’s
lips
curled
at
sight
of
the
large,
audacious
handwriting.
But
it
is
probable
that
whatever
kind
of
handwriting
Zuleika
might
have
had
would
have
been
just
the
kind
that
Katie
would
have
expected.
Fingering
the
envelope,
she
wondered
what
the
wretched
woman
had
to
say.
It
occurred
to
her
that
the
kettle
was
simmering
on
the
hob
in
the
kitchen,
and
that
she
might
easily
steam
open
the
envelope
and
master
its
contents.
However,
her
doing
this
would
have
in
no
way
affected
the
course
of
the
tragedy.
And
so
the
gods
(being
to-day
in
a
strictly
artistic
mood)
prompted
her
to
mind
her
own
business.
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