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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
196
But,
as
he
gazed
into
the
eyes
of
Nellie
O’Mora
now,
Dorset
needed
not
for
penitence
the
reproaches
of
his
past
self
or
of
his
forerunners.
“Sweet
girl,”
he
murmured,
“forgive
me.
I
was
mad.
I
was
under
the
sway
of
a
deplorable
infatuation.
It
is
past.
See,”
he
murmured
with
a
delicacy
of
feeling
that
justified
the
untruth,
“I
am
come
here
for
the
express
purpose
of
undoing
my
impiety.”
And,
turning
to
the
club-waiter
who
at
this
moment
answered
the
bell,
he
said
“Bring
me
a
glass
of
port,
please,
Barrett.”
Of
sandwiches
he
said
nothing.
At
the
word
“See”
he
had
stretched
one
hand
towards
Nellie;
the
other
he
had
laid
on
his
heart,
where
it
seemed
to
encounter
some
sort
of
hard
obstruction.
This
he
vaguely
fingered,
wondering
what
it
might
be,
while
he
gave
his
order
to
Barrett.
With
a
sudden
cry
he
dipped
his
hand
into
his
breast-pocket
and
drew
forth
the
bottle
he
had
borne
away
from
Mr.
Druce’s.
He
snatched
out
his
watch:
one
o’clock!--fifteen
minutes
overdue.
Wildly
he
called
the
waiter
back.
“A
tea-spoon,
quick!
No
port.
A
wine-glass
and
a
tea-spoon.
And--for
I
don’t
mind
telling
you,
Barrett,
that
your
mission
is
of
an
urgency
beyond
conjecture--take
lightning
for
your
model.
Go!”
Agitation
mastered
him.
He
tried
vainly
to
feel
his
pulse,
well
knowing
that
if
he
found
it
he
could
deduce
nothing
from
its
action.
He
saw
himself
haggard
in
the
looking-glass.
Would
Barrett
never
come?
“Every
two
hours”--the
directions
were
explicit.
Had
he
delivered
himself
into
the
gods’
hands?
The
eyes
of
Nellie
O’Mora
were
on
him
compassionately;
and
all
the
eyes
of
his
forerunners
were
on
him
in
austere
scorn:
“See,”
they
seemed
to
be
saying,
“the
chastisement
of
last
night’s
blasphemy.”
Violently,
insistently,
he
rang
the
bell.
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