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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
22
So
did
she
sit,
smiling,
wondering,
with
the
fringes
of
her
sash
between
her
fingers,
while
the
sun
sank
behind
the
opposite
wall
of
the
quadrangle,
and
the
shadows
crept
out
across
the
grass,
thirsty
for
the
dew.
III
The
clock
in
the
Warden’s
drawing-room
had
just
struck
eight,
and
already
the
ducal
feet
were
beautiful
on
the
white
bearskin
hearthrug.
So
slim
and
long
were
they,
of
instep
so
nobly
arched,
that
only
with
a
pair
of
glazed
ox-tongues
on
a
breakfast-table
were
they
comparable.
Incomparable
quite,
the
figure
and
face
and
vesture
of
him
who
ended
in
them.
The
Warden
was
talking
to
him,
with
all
the
deference
of
elderly
commoner
to
patrician
boy.
The
other
guests--an
Oriel
don
and
his
wife--were
listening
with
earnest
smile
and
submissive
droop,
at
a
slight
distance.
Now
and
again,
to
put
themselves
at
their
ease,
they
exchanged
in
undertone
a
word
or
two
about
the
weather.
“The
young
lady
whom
you
may
have
noticed
with
me,”
the
Warden
was
saying,
“is
my
orphaned
grand-daughter.”
(The
wife
of
the
Oriel
don
discarded
her
smile,
and
sighed,
with
a
glance
at
the
Duke,
who
was
himself
an
orphan.)
“She
has
come
to
stay
with
me.”
(The
Duke
glanced
quickly
round
the
room.)
“I
cannot
think
why
she
is
not
down
yet.”
(The
Oriel
don
fixed
his
eyes
on
the
clock,
as
though
he
suspected
it
of
being
fast.)
“I
must
ask
you
to
forgive
her.
She
appears
to
be
a
bright,
pleasant
young
woman.”
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