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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
180
In
this
haste,
however,
he
detected
a
certain
lack
of
dignity.
He
steadied
himself,
and
went
slowly
to
the
mirror.
There
he
adjusted
his
hat
with
care,
and
regarded
himself
very
seriously,
very
sternly,
from
various
angles,
like
a
man
invited
to
paint
his
own
portrait
for
the
Uffizi.
He
must
be
worthy
of
himself.
It
was
well
that
Zuleika
should
be
chastened.
Great
was
her
sin.
Out
of
life
and
death
she
had
fashioned
toys
for
her
vanity.
But
his
joy
must
be
in
vindication
of
what
was
noble,
not
in
making
suffer
what
was
vile.
Yesterday
he
had
been
her
puppet,
her
Jumping-Jack;
to-day
it
was
as
avenging
angel
that
he
would
appear
before
her.
The
gods
had
mocked
him
who
was
now
their
minister.
Their
minister?
Their
master,
as
being
once
more
master
of
himself.
It
was
they
who
had
plotted
his
undoing.
Because
they
loved
him
they
were
fain
that
he
should
die
young.
The
Dobson
woman
was
but
their
agent,
their
cat’s-paw.
By
her
they
had
all
but
got
him.
Not
quite!
And
now,
to
teach
them,
through
her,
a
lesson
they
would
not
soon
forget,
he
would
go
forth.
Shaking
with
laughter,
the
gods
leaned
over
the
thunder-clouds
to
watch
him.
He
went
forth.
On
the
well-whitened
doorstep
he
was
confronted
by
a
small
boy
in
uniform
bearing
a
telegram.
“Duke
of
Dorset?”
asked
the
small
boy.
Opening
the
envelope,
the
Duke
saw
that
the
message,
with
which
was
a
prepaid
form
for
reply,
had
been
handed
in
at
the
Tankerton
post-office.
It
ran
thus:
Marker
Marker
Fine marker
White-out
Fine white-out
Circle
Paint
Unmarker
Hand
Scalpel
Dice
Sieve
Purify
Undo
Redo
Start over
