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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
216
The
girl
had
ceased
from
crying,
and
her
anger
had
spent
itself
in
sobs.
She
was
gazing
at
him
woebegone
but
composed.
“Where
are
you
going?”
“You
must
not
ask
that,”
said
he.
“Enough
that
my
wings
are
spread.”
“Are
you
going
because
of
ME?”
“Not
in
the
least.
Indeed,
your
devotion
is
one
of
the
things
which
make
bitter
my
departure.
And
yet--I
am
glad
you
love
me.”
“Don’t
go,”
she
faltered.
He
came
nearer
to
her,
and
this
time
she
did
not
shrink
from
him.
“Don’t
you
find
the
rooms
comfortable?”
she
asked,
gazing
up
at
him.
“Have
you
ever
had
any
complaint
to
make
about
the
attendance?”
“No,”
said
the
Duke,
“the
attendance
has
always
been
quite
satisfactory.
I
have
never
felt
that
so
keenly
as
I
do
to-day.”
“Then
why
are
you
leaving?
Why
are
you
breaking
my
heart?”
“Suffice
it
that
I
cannot
do
otherwise.
Henceforth
you
will
see
me
no
more.
But
I
doubt
not
that
in
the
cultivation
of
my
memory
you
will
find
some
sort
of
lugubrious
satisfaction.
See!
here
are
the
ear-rings.
If
you
like,
I
will
put
them
in
with
my
own
hands.”
She
held
up
her
face
side-ways.
Into
the
lobe
of
her
left
ear
he
insinuated
the
hook
of
the
black
pearl.
On
the
cheek
upturned
to
him
there
were
still
traces
of
tears;
the
eyelashes
were
still
spangled.
For
all
her
blondness,
they
were
quite
dark,
these
glistening
eyelashes.
He
had
an
impulse,
which
he
put
from
him.
“Now
the
other
ear,”
he
said.
The
girl
turned
her
head.
Soon
the
pink
pearl
was
in
its
place.
Yet
the
girl
did
not
move.
She
seemed
to
be
waiting.
Nor
did
the
Duke
himself
seem
to
be
quite
satisfied.
He
let
his
fingers
dally
with
the
pearl.
Anon,
with
a
sigh,
he
withdrew
them.
The
girl
looked
up.
Their
eyes
met.
He
looked
away
from
her.
He
turned
away
from
her.
“You
may
kiss
my
hand,”
he
murmured,
extending
it
towards
her.
After
a
pause,
the
warm
pressure
of
her
lips
was
laid
on
it.
He
sighed,
but
did
not
look
round.
Another
pause,
a
longer
pause,
and
then
the
clatter
and
clink
of
the
outgoing
tray.
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