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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
236
“The
Judas
barge,”
said
the
Duke,
irritated
by
a
mistake
which
but
yesterday
had
rather
charmed
him.
As
he
followed
his
companion
across
the
plank,
there
came
dully
from
the
hills
the
first
low
growl
of
the
pent
storm.
The
sound
struck
for
him
a
strange
contrast
with
the
prattle
he
had
perforce
been
listening
to.
“Thunder,”
said
Zuleika
over
her
shoulder.
“Evidently,”
he
answered.
Half-way
up
the
stairs
to
the
roof,
she
looked
round.
“Aren’t
you
coming?”
she
asked.
He
shook
his
head,
and
pointed
to
the
raft
in
front
of
the
barge.
She
quickly
descended.
“Forgive
me,”
he
said,
“my
gesture
was
not
a
summons.
The
raft
is
for
men.”
“What
do
you
want
to
do
on
it?”
“To
wait
there
till
the
races
are
over.”
“But--what
do
you
mean?
Aren’t
you
coming
up
on
to
the
roof
at
all?
Yesterday--”
“Oh,
I
see,”
said
the
Duke,
unable
to
repress
a
smile.
“But
to-day
I
am
not
dressed
for
a
flying-leap.”
Zuleika
put
a
finger
to
her
lips.
“Don’t
talk
so
loud.
Those
women
up
there
will
hear
you.
No
one
must
ever
know
I
knew
what
was
going
to
happen.
What
evidence
should
I
have
that
I
tried
to
prevent
it?
Only
my
own
unsupported
word--and
the
world
is
always
against
a
woman.
So
do
be
careful.
I’ve
thought
it
all
out.
The
whole
thing
must
be
SPRUNG
on
me.
Don’t
look
so
horribly
cynical...
What
was
I
saying?
Oh
yes;
well,
it
doesn’t
really
matter.
I
had
it
fixed
in
my
mind
that
you--but
no,
of
course,
in
that
mantle
you
couldn’t.
But
why
not
come
up
on
the
roof
with
me
meanwhile,
and
then
afterwards
make
some
excuse
and--”
The
rest
of
her
whisper
was
lost
in
another
growl
of
thunder.
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