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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
232
Well,
here
they
were,
walking
on
Harold’s
either
side,
blind
to
fate,
and
only
longing
to
look
back
at
the
gorgeous
personage
behind
them.
Aunt
Mabel
had
inwardly
calculated
that
the
velvet
of
the
mantle
alone
could
not
have
cost
less
than
four
guineas
a
yard.
One
good
look
back,
and
she
would
be
able
to
calculate
how
many
yards
there
were...
She
followed
the
example
of
Lot’s
wife;
and
Jessie
followed
hers.
“Very
well,”
said
Harold.
“That
settles
it.
I
go
alone.”
And
he
was
gone
like
an
arrow,
across
the
High,
down
Oriel
Street.
The
two
women
stood
staring
ruefully
at
each
other.
“Pardon
me,”
said
the
Duke,
with
a
sweep
of
his
plumed
hat.
“I
observe
you
are
stranded;
and,
if
I
read
your
thoughts
aright,
you
are
impugning
the
courtesy
of
that
young
runagate.
Neither
of
you,
I
am
very
sure,
is
as
one
of
those
ladies
who
in
Imperial
Rome
took
a
saucy
pleasure
in
the
spectacle
of
death.
Neither
of
you
can
have
been
warned
by
your
escort
that
you
were
on
the
way
to
see
him
die,
of
his
own
accord,
in
company
with
many
hundreds
of
other
lads,
myself
included.
Therefore,
regard
his
flight
from
you
as
an
act
not
of
unkindness,
but
of
tardy
compunction.
The
hint
you
have
had
from
him
let
me
turn
into
a
counsel.
Go
back,
both
of
you,
to
the
place
whence
you
came.”
“Thank
you
SO
much,”
said
Aunt
Mabel,
with
what
she
took
to
be
great
presence
of
mind.
“MOST
kind
of
you.
We’ll
do
JUST
what
you
tell
us.
Come,
Jessie
dear,”
and
she
hurried
her
niece
away
with
her.
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