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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
199
XVI
For
what
happened
a
few
moments
later
you
must
not
blame
him.
Some
measure
of
force
was
the
only
way
out
of
an
impossible
situation.
It
was
in
vain
that
he
commanded
the
young
lady
to
let
go:
she
did
but
cling
the
closer.
It
was
in
vain
that
he
tried
to
disentangle
himself
of
her
by
standing
first
on
one
foot,
then
on
the
other,
and
veering
sharply
on
his
heel:
she
did
but
sway
as
though
hinged
to
him.
He
had
no
choice
but
to
grasp
her
by
the
wrists,
cast
her
aside,
and
step
clear
of
her
into
the
room.
Her
hat,
gauzily
basking
with
a
pair
of
long
white
gloves
on
one
of
his
arm-chairs,
proclaimed
that
she
had
come
to
stay.
Nor
did
she
rise.
Propped
on
one
elbow,
with
heaving
bosom
and
parted
lips,
she
seemed
to
be
trying
to
realise
what
had
been
done
to
her.
Through
her
undried
tears
her
eyes
shone
up
to
him.
He
asked:
“To
what
am
I
indebted
for
this
visit?”
“Ah,
say
that
again!”
she
murmured.
“Your
voice
is
music.”
He
repeated
his
question.
“Music!”
she
said
dreamily;
and
such
is
the
force
of
habit
that
“I
don’t,”
she
added,
“know
anything
about
music,
really.
But
I
know
what
I
like.”
“Had
you
not
better
get
up
from
the
floor?”
he
said.
“The
door
is
open,
and
any
one
who
passed
might
see
you.”
Softly
she
stroked
the
carpet
with
the
palms
of
her
hands.
“Happy
carpet!”
she
crooned.
“Aye,
happy
the
very
women
that
wove
the
threads
that
are
trod
by
the
feet
of
my
beloved
master.
But
hark!
he
bids
his
slave
rise
and
stand
before
him!”
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