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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
198
Suddenly
he
recalled
certain
words
lightly
spoken
yesterday
by
Zuleika.
She
had
told
him
he
was
loved
by
the
girl
who
waited
on
him--the
daughter
of
his
landlady.
Was
this
so?
He
had
seen
no
sign
of
it,
had
received
no
token
of
it.
But,
after
all,
how
should
he
have
seen
a
sign
of
anything
in
one
whom
he
had
never
consciously
visualised?
That
she
had
never
thrust
herself
on
his
notice
might
mean
merely
that
she
had
been
well
brought-up.
What
likelier
than
that
the
daughter
of
Mrs.
Batch,
that
worthy
soul,
had
been
well
brought
up?
Here,
at
any
rate,
was
the
chance
of
a
new
element
in
his
life,
or
rather
in
his
death.
Here,
possibly,
was
a
maiden
to
mourn
him.
He
would
lunch
in
his
rooms.
With
a
farewell
look
at
Nellie’s
miniature,
he
took
the
medicine-bottle
from
the
table,
and
went
quickly
out.
The
heavens
had
grown
steadily
darker
and
darker,
the
air
more
sulphurous
and
baleful.
And
the
High
had
a
strangely
woebegone
look,
being
all
forsaken
by
youth,
in
this
hour
of
luncheon.
Even
so
would
its
look
be
all
to-morrow,
thought
the
Duke,
and
for
many
morrows.
Well
he
had
done
what
he
could.
He
was
free
now
to
brighten
a
little
his
own
last
hours.
He
hastened
on,
eager
to
see
the
landlady’s
daughter.
He
wondered
what
she
was
like,
and
whether
she
really
loved
him.
As
he
threw
open
the
door
of
his
sitting-room,
he
was
aware
of
a
rustle,
a
rush,
a
cry.
In
another
instant,
he
was
aware
of
Zuleika
Dobson
at
his
feet,
at
his
knees,
clasping
him
to
her,
sobbing,
laughing,
sobbing.
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