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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
221
He
sat
down
in
solitude;
and
there
crept
over
him
a
mood
of
deep
depression...
Almost
two
hours
and
a
quarter
before
the
final
races!
What
on
earth
should
he
do
in
the
meantime?
He
seemed
to
have
done
all
that
there
was
for
him
to
do.
His
executors
would
do
the
rest.
He
had
no
farewell-letters
to
write.
He
had
no
friends
with
whom
he
was
on
terms
of
valediction.
There
was
nothing
at
all
for
him
to
do.
He
stared
blankly
out
of
the
window,
at
the
greyness
and
blackness
of
the
sky.
What
a
day!
What
a
climate!
Why
did
any
sane
person
live
in
England?
He
felt
positively
suicidal.
His
dully
vagrant
eye
lighted
on
the
bottle
of
Cold
Mixture.
He
ought
to
have
dosed
himself
a
full
hour
ago.
Well,
he
didn’t
care.
Had
Zuleika
noticed
the
bottle?
he
idly
wondered.
Probably
not.
She
would
have
made
some
sprightly
reference
to
it
before
she
went.
Since
there
was
nothing
to
do
but
sit
and
think,
he
wished
he
could
recapture
that
mood
in
which
at
luncheon
he
had
been
able
to
see
Zuleika
as
an
object
for
pity.
Never,
till
to-day,
had
he
seen
things
otherwise
than
they
were.
Nor
had
he
ever
needed
to.
Never,
till
last
night,
had
there
been
in
his
life
anything
he
needed
to
forget.
That
woman!
As
if
it
really
mattered
what
she
thought
of
him.
He
despised
himself
for
wishing
to
forget
she
despised
him.
But
the
wish
was
the
measure
of
the
need.
He
eyed
the
chiffonier.
Should
he
again
solicit
the
grape?
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