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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
187
The
sight
of
some
bottles
of
Cold
Mixture
on
that
hospitable
board
reminded
him
of
a
painful
fact.
In
the
clash
of
the
morning’s
excitements,
he
had
hardly
felt
the
gross
ailment
that
was
on
him.
He
became
fully
conscious
of
it
now,
and
there
leapt
in
him
a
hideous
doubt:
had
he
escaped
a
violent
death
only
to
succumb
to
“natural
causes”?
He
had
never
hitherto
had
anything
the
matter
with
him,
and
thus
he
belonged
to
the
worst,
the
most
apprehensive,
class
of
patients.
He
knew
that
a
cold,
were
it
neglected,
might
turn
malignant;
and
he
had
a
vision
of
himself
gripped
suddenly
in
the
street
by
internal
agonies--a
sympathetic
crowd,
an
ambulance,
his
darkened
bedroom;
local
doctor
making
hopelessly
wrong
diagnosis;
eminent
specialists
served
up
hot
by
special
train,
commending
local
doctor’s
treatment,
but
shaking
their
heads
and
refusing
to
say
more
than
“He
has
youth
on
his
side”;
a
slight
rally
at
sunset;
the
end.
All
this
flashed
through
his
mind.
He
quailed.
There
was
not
a
moment
to
lose.
He
frankly
confessed
to
Mr.
Druce
that
he
had
a
cold.
Mr.
Druce,
trying
to
insinuate
by
his
manner
that
this
fact
had
not
been
obvious,
suggested
the
Mixture--a
teaspoonful
every
two
hours.
“Give
me
some
now,
please,
at
once,”
said
the
Duke.
He
felt
magically
better
for
the
draught.
He
handled
the
little
glass
lovingly,
and
eyed
the
bottle.
“Why
not
two
teaspoonfuls
every
hour?”
he
suggested,
with
an
eagerness
almost
dipsomaniacal.
But
Mr.
Druce
was
respectfully
firm
against
that.
The
Duke
yielded.
He
fancied,
indeed,
that
the
gods
had
meant
him
to
die
of
an
overdose.
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