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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
237
“I
would
rather
make
my
excuses
forthwith,”
said
the
Duke.
“And,
as
the
races
must
be
almost
due
now,
I
advise
you
to
go
straight
up
and
secure
a
place
against
the
railing.”
“It
will
look
very
odd,
my
going
all
alone
into
a
crowd
of
people
whom
I
don’t
know.
I’m
an
unmarried
girl.
I
do
think
you
might--”
“Good-bye,”
said
the
Duke.
Again
Zuleika
raised
a
warning
finger.
“Good-bye,
John,”
she
whispered.
“See,
I
am
still
wearing
your
studs.
Good-bye.
Don’t
forget
to
call
my
name
in
a
loud
voice.
You
promised.”
“Yes.”
“And,”
she
added,
after
a
pause,
“remember
this.
I
have
loved
but
twice
in
my
life;
and
none
but
you
have
I
loved.
This,
too:
if
you
hadn’t
forced
me
to
kill
my
love,
I
would
have
died
with
you.
And
you
know
it
is
true.”
“Yes.”
It
was
true
enough.
Courteously
he
watched
her
up
the
stairs.
As
she
reached
the
roof,
she
cried
down
to
him
from
the
throng,
“Then
you
will
wait
down
there
to
take
me
home
afterwards?”
He
bowed
silently.
The
raft
was
even
more
crowded
than
yesterday,
but
way
was
made
for
him
by
Judasians
past
and
present.
He
took
his
place
in
the
centre
of
the
front
row.
At
his
feet
flowed
the
fateful
river.
From
the
various
barges
the
last
punt-loads
had
been
ferried
across
to
the
towing-path,
and
the
last
of
the
men
who
were
to
follow
the
boats
in
their
course
had
vanished
towards
the
starting-point.
There
remained,
however,
a
fringe
of
lesser
enthusiasts.
Their
figures
stood
outlined
sharply
in
that
strange
dark
clearness
which
immediately
precedes
a
storm.
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