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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
224
Last
night,
he
had
forgotten
to
kiss
Zuleika
when
he
held
her
by
the
wrists.
To-day
it
had
been
as
much
as
he
could
do
to
let
poor
little
Katie
kiss
his
hand.
Better
be
vulgar
with
Byron
than
a
noodle
with
Dorset!
he
bitterly
reflected...
Still,
noodledom
was
nearer
than
vulgarity
to
dandyism.
It
was
a
less
flagrant
lapse.
And
he
had
over
Byron
this
further
advantage:
his
noodledom
was
not
a
matter
of
common
knowledge;
whereas
Byron’s
vulgarity
had
ever
needed
to
be
in
the
glare
of
the
footlights
of
Europe.
The
world
would
say
of
him
that
he
laid
down
his
life
for
a
woman.
Deplorable
somersault?
But
nothing
evident
save
this
in
his
whole
life
was
faulty...
The
one
other
thing
that
might
be
carped
at--the
partisan
speech
he
made
in
the
Lords--had
exquisitely
justified
itself
by
its
result.
For
it
was
as
a
Knight
of
the
Garter
that
he
had
set
the
perfect
seal
on
his
dandyism.
Yes,
he
reflected,
it
was
on
the
day
when
first
he
donned
the
most
grandiose
of
all
costumes,
and
wore
it
grandlier
than
ever
yet
in
history
had
it
been
worn,
than
ever
would
it
be
worn
hereafter,
flaunting
the
robes
with
a
grace
unparalleled
and
inimitable,
and
lending,
as
it
were,
to
the
very
insignia
a
glory
beyond
their
own,
that
he
once
and
for
all
fulfilled
himself,
doer
of
that
which
he
had
been
sent
into
the
world
to
do.
And
there
floated
into
his
mind
a
desire,
vague
at
first,
soon
definite,
imperious,
irresistible,
to
see
himself
once
more,
before
he
died,
indued
in
the
fulness
of
his
glory
and
his
might.
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