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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
208
Civet,
poppies?
Was
there
not,
at
his
call,
a
sweeter
perfume,
a
stronger
anodyne?
He
rang
the
bell,
almost
caressingly.
His
heart
beat
at
sound
of
the
clinking
and
rattling
of
the
tray
borne
up
the
stairs.
She
was
coming,
the
girl
who
loved
him,
the
girl
whose
heart
would
be
broken
when
he
died.
Yet,
when
the
tray
appeared
in
the
doorway,
and
she
behind
it,
the
tray
took
precedence
of
her
in
his
soul
not
less
than
in
his
sight.
Twice,
after
an
arduous
morning,
had
his
luncheon
been
postponed,
and
the
coming
of
it
now
made
intolerable
the
pangs
of
his
hunger.
Also,
while
the
girl
laid
the
table-cloth,
it
occurred
to
him
how
flimsy,
after
all,
was
the
evidence
that
she
loved
him.
Suppose
she
did
nothing
of
the
kind!
At
the
Junta,
he
had
foreseen
no
difficulty
in
asking
her.
Now
he
found
himself
a
prey
to
embarrassment.
He
wondered
why.
He
had
not
failed
in
flow
of
gracious
words
to
Nellie
O’Mora.
Well,
a
miniature
by
Hoppner
was
one
thing,
a
landlady’s
live
daughter
was
another.
At
any
rate,
he
must
prime
himself
with
food.
He
wished
Mrs.
Batch
had
sent
up
something
more
calorific
than
cold
salmon.
He
asked
her
daughter
what
was
to
follow.
“There’s
a
pigeon-pie,
your
Grace.”
“Cold?
Then
please
ask
your
mother
to
heat
it
in
the
oven--quickly.
Anything
after
that?”
“A
custard
pudding,
your
Grace.”
“Cold?
Let
this,
too,
be
heated.
And
bring
up
a
bottle
of
champagne,
please;
and--and
a
bottle
of
port.”
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