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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
24
Was
the
young
Duke
bewitched?
Instantly,
utterly.
But
none
could
have
guessed
as
much
from
his
cold
stare,
his
easy
and
impassive
bow.
Throughout
dinner,
none
guessed
that
his
shirt-front
was
but
the
screen
of
a
fierce
warfare
waged
between
pride
and
passion.
Zuleika,
at
the
foot
of
the
table,
fondly
supposed
him
indifferent
to
her.
Though
he
sat
on
her
right,
not
one
word
or
glance
would
he
give
her.
All
his
conversation
was
addressed
to
the
unassuming
lady
who
sat
on
his
other
side,
next
to
the
Warden.
Her
he
edified
and
flustered
beyond
measure
by
his
insistent
courtesy.
Her
husband,
alone
on
the
other
side
of
the
table,
was
mortified
by
his
utter
failure
to
engage
Zuleika
in
small-talk.
Zuleika
was
sitting
with
her
profile
turned
to
him--the
profile
with
the
pink
pearl--and
was
gazing
full
at
the
young
Duke.
She
was
hardly
more
affable
than
a
cameo.
“Yes,”
“No,”
“I
don’t
know,”
were
the
only
answers
she
would
vouchsafe
to
his
questions.
A
vague
“Oh
really?”
was
all
he
got
for
his
timid
little
offerings
of
information.
In
vain
he
started
the
topic
of
modern
conjuring-tricks
as
compared
with
the
conjuring-tricks
performed
by
the
ancient
Egyptians.
Zuleika
did
not
even
say
“Oh
really?”
when
he
told
her
about
the
metamorphosis
of
the
bulls
in
the
Temple
of
Osiris.
He
primed
himself
with
a
glass
of
sherry,
cleared
his
throat.
“And
what,”
he
asked,
with
a
note
of
firmness,
“did
you
think
of
our
cousins
across
the
water?”
Zuleika
said
“Yes;”
and
then
he
gave
in.
Nor
was
she
conscious
that
he
ceased
talking
to
her.
At
intervals
throughout
the
rest
of
dinner,
she
murmured
“Yes,”
and
“No,”
and
“Oh
really?”
though
the
poor
little
don
was
now
listening
silently
to
the
Duke
and
the
Warden.
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