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290
Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
249
As
she
descended
the
last
flight
of
stairs,
her
daughter
had
just
shut
the
front-door,
and
was
coming
along
the
hall.
“Poor
Mr.
Noaks--he’s
gone,”
said
the
mother.
“Has
he?”
said
Katie
listlessly.
“Yes
he
has,
you
heartless
girl.
What’s
that
you’ve
got
in
your
hand?
Why,
if
it
isn’t
the
black-leading!
And
what
have
you
been
doing
with
that?”
“Let
me
alone,
mother,
do,”
said
poor
Katie.
She
had
done
her
lowly
task.
She
had
expressed
her
mourning,
as
best
she
could,
there
where
she
had
been
wont
to
express
her
love.
XXI
And
Zuleika?
She
had
done
a
wise
thing,
and
was
where
it
was
best
that
she
should
be.
Her
face
lay
upturned
on
the
water’s
surface,
and
round
it
were
the
masses
of
her
dark
hair,
half
floating,
half
submerged.
Her
eyes
were
closed,
and
her
lips
were
parted.
Not
Ophelia
in
the
brook
could
have
seemed
more
at
peace.
“Like
a
creature
native
and
indued
Unto
that
element,”
tranquil
Zuleika
lay.
Gently
to
and
fro
her
tresses
drifted
on
the
water,
or
under
the
water
went
ever
ravelling
and
unravelling.
Nothing
else
of
her
stirred.
What
to
her
now
the
loves
that
she
had
inspired
and
played
on?
the
lives
lost
for
her?
Little
thought
had
she
now
of
them.
Aloof
she
lay.
Steadily
rising
from
the
water
was
a
thick
vapour
that
turned
to
dew
on
the
window-pane.
The
air
was
heavy
with
scent
of
violets.
These
are
the
flowers
of
mourning;
but
their
scent
here
and
now
signified
nothing;
for
Eau
de
Violettes
was
the
bath-essence
that
Zuleika
always
had.
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