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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
231
“Oh,
look!”
cried
a
young
lady
emerging
with
her
brother
and
her
aunt
through
the
gate
of
Brasenose.
“For
heaven’s
sake,
Jessie,
try
to
behave
yourself,”
hissed
her
brother.
“Aunt
Mabel,
for
heaven’s
sake
don’t
stare.”
He
compelled
the
pair
to
walk
on
with
him.
“Jessie,
if
you
look
round
over
your
shoulder...
No,
it
is
NOT
the
Vice-Chancellor.
It’s
Dorset,
of
Judas--the
Duke
of
Dorset...
Why
on
earth
shouldn’t
he?...
No,
it
isn’t
odd
in
the
least...
No,
I’m
NOT
losing
my
temper.
Only,
don’t
call
me
your
dear
boy...
No,
we
will
NOT
walk
slowly
so
as
to
let
him
pass
us...
Jessie,
if
you
look
round...”
Poor
fellow!
However
fond
an
undergraduate
be
of
his
womenfolk,
at
Oxford
they
keep
him
in
a
painful
state
of
tension:
at
any
moment
they
may
somehow
disgrace
him.
And
if
throughout
the
long
day
he
shall
have
had
the
added
strain
of
guarding
them
from
the
knowledge
that
he
is
about
to
commit
suicide,
a
certain
measure
of
irritability
must
be
condoned.
Poor
Jessie
and
Aunt
Mabel!
They
were
destined
to
remember
that
Harold
had
been
“very
peculiar”
all
day.
They
had
arrived
in
the
morning,
happy
and
eager
despite
the
menace
of
the
sky,
and--well,
they
were
destined
to
reproach
themselves
for
having
felt
that
Harold
was
“really
rather
impossible.”
Oh,
if
he
had
only
confided
in
them!
They
could
have
reasoned
with
him,
saved
him--surely
they
could
have
saved
him!
When
he
told
them
that
the
“First
Division”
of
the
races
was
always
very
dull,
and
that
they
had
much
better
let
him
go
to
it
alone,--when
he
told
them
that
it
was
always
very
rowdy,
and
that
ladies
were
not
supposed
to
be
there--oh,
why
had
they
not
guessed
and
clung
to
him,
and
kept
him
away
from
the
river?
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