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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
209
His
was
a
head
that
had
always
hitherto
defied
the
grape.
But
he
thought
that
to-day,
by
all
he
had
gone
through,
by
all
the
shocks
he
had
suffered,
and
the
strains
he
had
steeled
himself
to
bear,
as
well
as
by
the
actual
malady
that
gripped
him,
he
might
perchance
have
been
sapped
enough
to
experience
by
reaction
that
cordial
glow
of
which
he
had
now
and
again
seen
symptoms
in
his
fellows.
Nor
was
he
altogether
disappointed
of
this
hope.
As
the
meal
progressed,
and
the
last
of
the
champagne
sparkled
in
his
glass,
certain
things
said
to
him
by
Zuleika--certain
implied
criticisms
that
had
rankled,
yes--lost
their
power
to
discommode
him.
He
was
able
to
smile
at
the
impertinences
of
an
angry
woman,
the
tantrums
of
a
tenth-rate
conjurer
told
to
go
away.
He
felt
he
had
perhaps
acted
harshly.
With
all
her
faults,
she
had
adored
him.
Yes,
he
had
been
arbitrary.
There
seemed
to
be
a
strain
of
brutality
in
his
nature.
Poor
Zuleika!
He
was
glad
for
her
that
she
had
contrived
to
master
her
infatuation...
Enough
for
him
that
he
was
loved
by
this
exquisite
meek
girl
who
had
served
him
at
the
feast.
Anon,
when
he
summoned
her
to
clear
the
things
away,
he
would
bid
her
tell
him
the
tale
of
her
lowly
passion.
He
poured
a
second
glass
of
port,
sipped
it,
quaffed
it,
poured
a
third.
The
grey
gloom
of
the
weather
did
but,
as
he
eyed
the
bottle,
heighten
his
sense
of
the
rich
sunshine
so
long
ago
imprisoned
by
the
vintner
and
now
released
to
make
glad
his
soul.
Even
so
to
be
released
was
the
love
pent
for
him
in
the
heart
of
this
sweet
girl.
Would
that
he
loved
her
in
return!...
Why
not?
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