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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
204
“You
have
sent
him
an
excuse?”
“No,
I
have
forgotten
him.”
“That
is
unworthy
of
you.
After
all,
he
is
going
to
die
for
you,
like
the
rest
of
us.
I
am
but
one
of
a
number,
you
know.
Use
your
sense
of
proportion.”
“If
I
do
that,”
she
said
after
a
pause,
“you
may
not
be
pleased
by
the
issue.
I
may
find
that
whereas
yesterday
I
was
great
in
my
sinfulness,
and
to-day
am
great
in
my
love,
you,
in
your
hate
of
me,
are
small.
I
may
find
that
what
I
had
taken
to
be
a
great
indifference
is
nothing
but
a
very
small
hate...
Ah,
I
have
wounded
you?
Forgive
me,
a
weak
woman,
talking
at
random
in
her
wretchedness.
Oh
John,
John,
if
I
thought
you
small,
my
love
would
but
take
on
the
crown
of
pity.
Don’t
forbid
me
to
call
you
John.
I
looked
you
up
in
Debrett
while
I
was
waiting
for
you.
That
seemed
to
bring
you
nearer
to
me.
So
many
other
names
you
have,
too.
I
remember
you
told
me
them
all
yesterday,
here
in
this
room--not
twenty-four
hours
ago.
Hours?
Years!”
She
laughed
hysterically.
“John,
don’t
you
see
why
I
won’t
stop
talking?
It’s
because
I
dare
not
think.”
“Yonder
in
Balliol,”
he
suavely
said,
“you
will
find
the
matter
of
my
death
easier
to
forget
than
here.”
He
took
her
hat
and
gloves
from
the
arm-chair,
and
held
them
carefully
out
to
her;
but
she
did
not
take
them.
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