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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
195
As
he
rang
the
dining-room
bell,
his
eyes
rested
on
the
miniature
of
Nellie
O’Mora.
And
the
eyes
of
Nellie
O’Mora
seemed
to
meet
his
in
reproach.
Just
as
she
may
have
gazed
at
Greddon
when
he
cast
her
off,
so
now
did
she
gaze
at
him
who
a
few
hours
ago
had
refused
to
honour
her
memory.
Yes,
and
many
other
eyes
than
hers
rebuked
him.
It
was
around
the
walls
of
this
room
that
hung
those
presentments
of
the
Junta
as
focussed,
year
after
year,
in
a
certain
corner
of
Tom
Quad,
by
Messrs.
Hills
and
Saunders.
All
around,
the
members
of
the
little
hierarchy,
a
hierarchy
ever
changing
in
all
but
youth
and
a
certain
sternness
of
aspect
that
comes
at
the
moment
of
being
immortalised,
were
gazing
forth
now
with
a
sternness
beyond
their
wont.
Not
one
of
them
but
had
in
his
day
handed
on
loyally
the
praise
of
Nellie
O’Mora,
in
the
form
their
Founder
had
ordained.
And
the
Duke’s
revolt
last
night
had
so
incensed
them
that
they
would,
if
they
could,
have
come
down
from
their
frames
and
walked
straight
out
of
the
club,
in
chronological
order--first,
the
men
of
the
‘sixties,
almost
as
near
in
time
to
Greddon
as
to
the
Duke,
all
so
gloriously
be-whiskered
and
cravated,
but
how
faded
now,
alas,
by
exposure;
and
last
of
all
in
the
procession
and
angrier
perhaps
than
any
of
them,
the
Duke
himself--the
Duke
of
a
year
ago,
President
and
sole
Member.
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