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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
25
She
was
in
a
trance
of
sheer
happiness.
At
last,
she
thought,
her
hope
was
fulfilled--that
hope
which,
although
she
had
seldom
remembered
it
in
the
joy
of
her
constant
triumphs,
had
been
always
lurking
in
her,
lying
near
to
her
heart
and
chafing
her,
like
the
shift
of
sackcloth
which
that
young
brilliant
girl,
loved
and
lost
of
Giacopone
di
Todi,
wore
always
in
secret
submission
to
her
own
soul,
under
the
fair
soft
robes
and
the
rubies
men
saw
on
her.
At
last,
here
was
the
youth
who
would
not
bow
down
to
her;
whom,
looking
up
to
him,
she
could
adore.
She
ate
and
drank
automatically,
never
taking
her
gaze
from
him.
She
felt
not
one
touch
of
pique
at
his
behaviour.
She
was
tremulous
with
a
joy
that
was
new
to
her,
greater
than
any
joy
she
had
known.
Her
soul
was
as
a
flower
in
its
opetide.
She
was
in
love.
Rapt,
she
studied
every
lineament
of
the
pale
and
perfect
face--the
brow
from
which
bronze-coloured
hair
rose
in
tiers
of
burnished
ripples;
the
large
steel-coloured
eyes,
with
their
carven
lids;
the
carven
nose,
and
the
plastic
lips.
She
noted
how
long
and
slim
were
his
fingers,
and
how
slender
his
wrists.
She
noted
the
glint
cast
by
the
candles
upon
his
shirt-front.
The
two
large
white
pearls
there
seemed
to
her
symbols
of
his
nature.
They
were
like
two
moons:
cold,
remote,
radiant.
Even
when
she
gazed
at
the
Duke’s
face,
she
was
aware
of
them
in
her
vision.
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