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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
200
Just
after
she
had
risen,
a
figure
appeared
in
the
doorway.
“I
beg
pardon,
your
Grace;
Mother
wants
to
know,
will
you
be
lunching
in?”
“Yes,”
said
the
Duke.
“I
will
ring
when
I
am
ready.”
And
it
dawned
on
him
that
this
girl,
who
perhaps
loved
him,
was,
according
to
all
known
standards,
extraordinarily
pretty.
“Will--”
she
hesitated,
“will
Miss
Dobson
be--”
“No,”
he
said.
“I
shall
be
alone.”
And
there
was
in
the
girl’s
parting
half-glance
at
Zuleika
that
which
told
him
he
was
truly
loved,
and
made
him
the
more
impatient
of
his
offensive
and
accursed
visitor.
“You
want
to
be
rid
of
me?”
asked
Zuleika,
when
the
girl
was
gone.
“I
have
no
wish
to
be
rude;
but--since
you
force
me
to
say
it--yes.”
“Then
take
me,”
she
cried,
throwing
back
her
arms,
“and
throw
me
out
of
the
window.”
He
smiled
coldly.
“You
think
I
don’t
mean
it?
You
think
I
would
struggle?
Try
me.”
She
let
herself
droop
sideways,
in
an
attitude
limp
and
portable.
“Try
me,”
she
repeated.
“All
this
is
very
well
conceived,
no
doubt,”
said
he,
“and
well
executed.
But
it
happens
to
be
otiose.”
“What
do
you
mean?”
“I
mean
you
may
set
your
mind
at
rest.
I
am
not
going
to
back
out
of
my
promise.”
Zuleika
flushed.
“You
are
cruel.
I
would
give
the
world
and
all
not
to
have
written
you
that
hateful
letter.
Forget
it,
forget
it,
for
pity’s
sake!”
The
Duke
looked
searchingly
at
her.
“You
mean
that
you
now
wish
to
release
me
from
my
promise?”
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