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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
194
Good
though
the
sermon
was
in
style
and
sentiment,
the
flaw
in
its
reasoning
was
too
patent
for
any
converts
to
be
made.
As
he
walked
out
of
the
quadrangle,
the
Duke
felt
the
hopelessness
of
his
cause.
Still
he
battled
bravely
for
it
up
the
High,
waylaying,
cajoling,
commanding,
offering
vast
bribes.
He
carried
his
crusade
into
the
Loder,
and
thence
into
Vincent’s,
and
out
into
the
street
again,
eager,
untiring,
unavailing:
everywhere
he
found
his
precept
checkmated
by
his
example.
The
sight
of
The
MacQuern
coming
out
top-speed
from
the
Market,
with
a
large
but
inexpensive
bunch
of
flowers,
reminded
him
of
the
luncheon
that
was
to
be.
Never
to
throw
over
an
engagement
was
for
him,
as
we
have
seen,
a
point
of
honour.
But
this
particular
engagement--hateful,
when
he
accepted
it,
by
reason
of
his
love--was
now
impossible
for
the
reason
which
had
made
him
take
so
ignominiously
to
his
heels
this
morning.
He
curtly
told
the
Scot
not
to
expect
him.
“Is
SHE
not
coming?”
gasped
the
Scot,
with
quick
suspicion.
“Oh,”
said
the
Duke,
turning
on
his
heel,
“she
doesn’t
know
that
I
shan’t
be
there.
You
may
count
on
her.”
This
he
took
to
be
the
very
truth,
and
he
was
glad
to
have
made
of
it
a
thrust
at
the
man
who
had
so
uncouthly
asserted
himself
last
night.
He
could
not
help
smiling,
though,
at
this
little
resentment
erect
after
the
cataclysm
that
had
swept
away
all
else.
Then
he
smiled
to
think
how
uneasy
Zuleika
would
be
at
his
absence.
What
agonies
of
suspense
she
must
have
had
all
this
morning!
He
imagined
her
silent
at
the
luncheon,
with
a
vacant
gaze
at
the
door,
eating
nothing
at
all.
And
he
became
aware
that
he
was
rather
hungry.
He
had
done
all
he
could
to
save
young
Oxford.
Now
for
some
sandwiches!
He
went
into
the
Junta.
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