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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
247
The
Duke
was
dead.
This
was
the
stupendous
outline
she
had
grasped:
now
let
it
be
filled
in.
She
had
been
stricken:
now
let
her
be
racked.
Soon
after
her
daughter
had
moved
away,
Mrs.
Batch
dried
her
eyes,
and
bade
Clarence
tell
just
what
had
happened.
She
did
not
flinch.
Modern
Katie
did.
Such
had
ever
been
the
Duke’s
magic
in
the
household
that
Clarence
had
at
first
forgotten
to
mention
that
any
one
else
was
dead.
Of
this
omission
he
was
glad.
It
promised
him
a
new
lease
of
importance.
Meanwhile,
he
described
in
greater
detail
the
Duke’s
plunge.
Mrs.
Batch’s
mind,
while
she
listened,
ran
ahead,
dog-like,
into
the
immediate
future,
ranging
around:
“the
family”
would
all
be
here
to-morrow,
the
Duke’s
own
room
must
be
“put
straight”
to-night,
“I
was
of
speaking”...
Katie’s
mind
harked
back
to
the
immediate
past--to
the
tone
of
that
voice,
to
that
hand
which
she
had
kissed,
to
the
touch
of
those
lips
on
her
brow,
to
the
door-step
she
had
made
so
white
for
him,
day
by
day...
The
sound
of
the
rain
had
long
ceased.
There
was
the
noise
of
a
gathering
wind.
“Then
in
went
a
lot
of
others,”
Clarence
was
saying.
“And
they
all
shouted
out
‘Zuleika!’
just
like
he
did.
Then
a
lot
more
went
in.
First
I
thought
it
was
some
sort
of
fun.
Not
it!”
And
he
told
how,
by
inquiries
further
down
the
river,
he
had
learned
the
extent
of
the
disaster.
“Hundreds
and
hundreds
of
them--ALL
of
them,”
he
summed
up.
“And
all
for
the
love
of
HER,”
he
added,
as
with
a
sulky
salute
to
Romance.
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