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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
211
“Stay!”
he
uttered.
“I
have
something
to
say
to
you.”
The
girl
turned
to
him.
He
forced
his
eyes
to
meet
hers.
“I
understand,”
he
said
in
a
constrained
voice,
“that
you
regard
me
with
sentiments
of
something
more
than
esteem.--Is
this
so?”
The
girl
had
stepped
quickly
back,
and
her
face
was
scarlet.
“Nay,”
he
said,
having
to
go
through
with
it
now,
“there
is
no
cause
for
embarrassment.
And
I
am
sure
you
will
acquit
me
of
wanton
curiosity.
Is
it
a
fact
that
you--love
me?”
She
tried
to
speak,
could
not.
But
she
nodded
her
head.
The
Duke,
much
relieved,
came
nearer
to
her.
“What
is
your
name?”
he
asked
gently.
“Katie,”
she
was
able
to
gasp.
“Well,
Katie,
how
long
have
you
loved
me?”
“Ever
since,”
she
faltered,
“ever
since
you
came
to
engage
the
rooms.”
“You
are
not,
of
course,
given
to
idolising
any
tenant
of
your
mother’s?”
“No.”
“May
I
boast
myself
the
first
possessor
of
your
heart?”
“Yes.”
She
had
become
very
pale
now,
and
was
trembling
painfully.
“And
may
I
assume
that
your
love
for
me
has
been
entirely
disinterested?...
You
do
not
catch
my
meaning?
I
will
put
my
question
in
another
way.
In
loving
me,
you
never
supposed
me
likely
to
return
your
love?”
The
girl
looked
up
at
him
quickly,
but
at
once
her
eyelids
fluttered
down
again.
“Come,
come!”
said
the
Duke.
“My
question
is
a
plain
one.
Did
you
ever
for
an
instant
suppose,
Katie,
that
I
might
come
to
love
you?”
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