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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
179
He
rose
from
his
chair,
and
“Dear
Miss
Dobson--no,
MY
dear
Miss
Dobson,”
he
murmured,
pacing
the
room,
“I
am
so
very
sorry
I
cannot
come
to
see
you:
I
have
to
attend
two
lectures
this
morning.
By
contrast
with
this
weariness,
it
will
be
the
more
delightful
to
meet
you
at
The
MacQuern’s.
I
want
to
see
as
much
as
I
can
of
you
to-day,
because
to-night
there
is
the
Bump
Supper,
and
to-morrow
morning,
alas!
I
must
motor
to
Windsor
for
this
wretched
Investiture.
Meanwhile,
how
can
you
ask
to
be
forgiven
when
there
is
nothing
whatever
to
forgive?
It
seems
to
me
that
mine,
not
yours,
is
the
form
of
humour
that
needs
explanation.
My
proposal
to
die
for
you
was
made
in
as
playful
a
spirit
as
my
proposal
to
marry
you.
And
it
is
really
for
me
to
ask
forgiveness
of
you.
One
thing
especially,”
he
murmured,
fingering
in
his
waistcoat-pocket
the
ear-rings
she
had
given
him,
“pricks
my
conscience.
I
do
feel
that
I
ought
not
to
have
let
you
give
me
these
two
pearls--at
any
rate,
not
the
one
which
went
into
premature
mourning
for
me.
As
I
have
no
means
of
deciding
which
of
the
two
this
one
is,
I
enclose
them
both,
with
the
hope
that
the
pretty
difference
between
them
will
in
time
reappear”...
Or
words
to
that
effect...
Stay!
why
not
add
to
the
joy
of
contriving
that
effect
the
greater
joy
of
watching
it?
Why
send
Zuleika
a
letter?
He
would
obey
her
summons.
He
would
speed
to
her
side.
He
snatched
up
a
hat.
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