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290
Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
250
The
bath-room
was
not
of
the
white-gleaming
kind
to
which
she
was
accustomed.
The
walls
were
papered,
not
tiled,
and
the
bath
itself
was
of
japanned
tin,
framed
in
mahogany.
These
things,
on
the
evening
of
her
arrival
at
the
Warden’s,
had
rather
distressed
her.
But
she
was
the
better
able
to
bear
them
because
of
that
well-remembered
past
when
a
bath-room
was
in
itself
a
luxury
pined
for--days
when
a
not-large
and
not-full
can
of
not-hot
water,
slammed
down
at
her
bedroom
door
by
a
governess-resenting
housemaid,
was
as
much
as
the
gods
allowed
her.
And
there
was,
to
dulcify
for
her
the
bath
of
this
evening,
the
yet
sharper
contrast
with
the
plight
she
had
just
come
home
in,
sopped,
shivering,
clung
to
by
her
clothes.
Because
this
bath
was
not
a
mere
luxury,
but
a
necessary
precaution,
a
sure
means
of
salvation
from
chill,
she
did
the
more
gratefully
bask
in
it,
till
Melisande
came
back
to
her,
laden
with
warmed
towels.
A
few
minutes
before
eight
o’clock
she
was
fully
ready
to
go
down
to
dinner,
with
even
more
than
the
usual
glow
of
health,
and
hungry
beyond
her
wont.
Yet,
as
she
went
down,
her
heart
somewhat
misgave
her.
Indeed,
by
force
of
the
wide
experience
she
had
had
as
a
governess,
she
never
did
feel
quite
at
her
ease
when
she
was
staying
in
a
private
house:
the
fear
of
not
giving
satisfaction
haunted
her;
she
was
always
on
her
guard;
the
shadow
of
dismissal
absurdly
hovered.
And
to-night
she
could
not
tell
herself,
as
she
usually
did,
not
to
be
so
silly.
If
her
grandfather
knew
already
the
motive
by
which
those
young
men
had
been
actuated,
dinner
with
him
might
be
a
rather
strained
affair.
He
might
tell
her,
in
so
many
words,
that
he
wished
he
had
not
invited
her
to
Oxford.
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