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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
235
“May
I?”
she
whispered,
smiling
round
into
his
face.
His
shoulder-knots
just
perceptibly
rose.
“There
isn’t
a
policeman
in
sight,
John.
You’re
at
my
mercy.
No,
no;
I’m
at
yours.
Tolerate
me.
You
really
do
look
quite
wonderful.
There,
I
won’t
be
so
impertinent
as
to
praise
you.
Only
let
me
be
with
you.
Will
you?”
The
shoulder-knots
repeated
their
answer.
“You
needn’t
listen
to
me;
needn’t
look
at
me--unless
you
care
to
use
my
eyes
as
mirrors.
Only
let
me
be
seen
with
you.
That’s
what
I
want.
Not
that
your
society
isn’t
a
boon
in
itself,
John.
Oh,
I’ve
been
so
bored
since
I
left
you.
The
MacQuern
is
too,
too
dull,
and
so
are
his
friends.
Oh,
that
meal
with
them
in
Balliol!
As
soon
as
I
grew
used
to
the
thought
that
they
were
going
to
die
for
me,
I
simply
couldn’t
stand
them.
Poor
boys!
it
was
as
much
as
I
could
do
not
to
tell
them
I
wished
them
dead
already.
Indeed,
when
they
brought
me
down
for
the
first
races,
I
did
suggest
that
they
might
as
well
die
now
as
later.
Only
they
looked
very
solemn
and
said
it
couldn’t
possibly
be
done
till
after
the
final
races.
And
oh,
the
tea
with
them!
What
have
YOU
been
doing
all
the
afternoon?
Oh
John,
after
THEM,
I
could
almost
love
you
again.
Why
can’t
one
fall
in
love
with
a
man’s
clothes?
To
think
that
all
those
splendid
things
you
have
on
are
going
to
be
spoilt--all
for
me.
Nominally
for
me,
that
is.
It
is
very
wonderful,
John.
I
do
appreciate
it,
really
and
truly,
though
I
know
you
think
I
don’t.
John,
if
it
weren’t
mere
spite
you
feel
for
me--but
it’s
no
good
talking
about
that.
Come,
let
us
be
as
cheerful
as
we
may
be.
Is
this
the
Judas
house-boat?”
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