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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
234
To-day
by
scores
of
women
it
was
calculated
not
only
that
the
velvet
of
the
Duke’s
mantle
could
not
have
cost
less
than
four
guineas
a
yard,
but
also
that
there
must
be
quite
twenty-five
yards
of
it.
Some
of
the
fair
mathematicians
had,
in
the
course
of
the
past
fortnight,
visited
the
Royal
Academy
and
seen
there
Mr.
Sargent’s
portrait
of
the
wearer,
so
that
their
estimate
now
was
but
the
endorsement
of
an
estimate
already
made.
Yet
their
impression
of
the
Duke
was
above
all
a
spiritual
one.
The
nobility
of
his
face
and
bearing
was
what
most
thrilled
them
as
they
went
by;
and
those
of
them
who
had
heard
the
rumour
that
he
was
in
love
with
that
frightfully
flashy-looking
creature,
Zuleika
Dobson,
were
more
than
ever
sure
there
wasn’t
a
word
of
truth
in
it.
As
he
neared
the
end
of
the
avenue,
the
Duke
was
conscious
of
a
thinning
in
the
procession
on
either
side
of
him,
and
anon
he
was
aware
that
not
one
undergraduate
was
therein.
And
he
knew
at
once--did
not
need
to
look
back
to
know--why
this
was.
SHE
was
coming.
Yes,
she
had
come
into
the
avenue,
her
magnetism
speeding
before
her,
insomuch
that
all
along
the
way
the
men
immediately
ahead
of
her
looked
round,
beheld
her,
stood
aside
for
her.
With
her
walked
The
MacQuern,
and
a
little
bodyguard
of
other
blest
acquaintances;
and
behind
her
swayed
the
dense
mass
of
the
disorganised
procession.
And
now
the
last
rank
between
her
and
the
Duke
was
broken,
and
at
the
revealed
vision
of
him
she
faltered
midway
in
some
raillery
she
was
addressing
to
The
MacQuern.
Her
eyes
were
fixed,
her
lips
were
parted,
her
tread
had
become
stealthy.
With
a
brusque
gesture
of
dismissal
to
the
men
beside
her,
she
darted
forward,
and
lightly
overtook
the
Duke
just
as
he
was
turning
towards
the
barges.
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