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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
205
“I
give
you
three
minutes,”
he
told
her.
“Two
minutes,
that
is,
in
which
to
make
yourself
tidy
before
the
mirror.
A
third
in
which
to
say
good-bye
and
be
outside
the
front-door.”
“If
I
refuse?”
“You
will
not.”
“If
I
do?”
“I
shall
send
for
a
policeman.”
She
looked
well
at
him.
“Yes,”
she
slowly
said,
“I
think
you
would
do
that.”
She
took
her
things
from
him,
and
laid
them
by
the
mirror.
With
a
high
hand
she
quelled
the
excesses
of
her
hair--some
of
the
curls
still
agleam
with
water--and
knowingly
poised
and
pinned
her
hat.
Then,
after
a
few
swift
touches
and
passes
at
neck
and
waist,
she
took
her
gloves
and,
wheeling
round
to
him,
“There!”
she
said,
“I
have
been
quick.”
“Admirably,”
he
allowed.
“Quick
in
more
than
meets
the
eye,
John.
Spiritually
quick.
You
saw
me
putting
on
my
hat;
you
did
not
see
love
taking
on
the
crown
of
pity,
and
me
bonneting
her
with
it,
tripping
her
up
and
trampling
the
life
out
of
her.
Oh,
a
most
cold-blooded
business,
John!
Had
to
be
done,
though.
No
other
way
out.
So
I
just
used
my
sense
of
proportion,
as
you
rashly
bade
me,
and
then
hardened
my
heart
at
sight
of
you
as
you
are.
One
of
a
number?
Yes,
and
a
quite
unlovable
unit.
So
I
am
all
right
again.
And
now,
where
is
Balliol?
Far
from
here?”
“No,”
he
answered,
choking
a
little,
as
might
a
card-player
who,
having
been
dealt
a
splendid
hand,
and
having
played
it
with
flawless
skill,
has
yet--damn
it!--lost
the
odd
trick.
“Balliol
is
quite
near.
At
the
end
of
this
street
in
fact.
I
can
show
it
to
you
from
the
front-door.”
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