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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
202
The
Duke
had
drawn
her
ear-rings
from
his
waistcoat
pocket,
and
was
contemplating
them
in
the
palm
of
his
hand.
Blanched,
both
of
them,
yes.
He
laid
them
on
the
table.
“Take
them,”
he
said.
“No,”
she
shuddered.
“I
could
never
forget
that
once
they
were
both
black.”
She
flung
them
into
the
fender.
“Oh
John,”
she
cried,
turning
to
him
and
falling
again
to
her
knees,
“I
do
so
want
to
forget
what
I
have
been.
I
want
to
atone.
You
think
you
can
drive
me
out
of
your
life.
You
cannot,
darling--since
you
won’t
kill
me.
Always
I
shall
follow
you
on
my
knees,
thus.”
He
looked
down
at
her
over
his
folded
arms,
“I
am
not
going
to
back
out
of
my
promise,”
he
repeated.
She
stopped
her
ears.
With
a
stern
joy
he
unfolded
his
arms,
took
some
papers
from
his
breast-pocket,
and,
selecting
one
of
them,
handed
it
to
her.
It
was
the
telegram
sent
by
his
steward.
She
read
it.
With
a
stern
joy
he
watched
her
reading
it.
Wild-eyed,
she
looked
up
from
it
to
him,
tried
to
speak,
and
swerved
down
senseless.
He
had
not
foreseen
this.
“Help!”
he
vaguely
cried--was
she
not
a
fellow-creature?--and
rushed
blindly
out
to
his
bedroom,
whence
he
returned,
a
moment
later,
with
the
water-jug.
He
dipped
his
hand,
and
sprinkled
the
upturned
face
(Dew-drops
on
a
white
rose?
But
some
other,
sharper
analogy
hovered
to
him).
He
dipped
and
sprinkled.
The
water-beads
broke,
mingled--rivulets
now.
He
dipped
and
flung,
then
caught
the
horrible
analogy
and
rebounded.
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