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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
252
“Perhaps,
grand-papa,”
she
said
awkwardly.
Left
alone,
she
hardly
knew
whether
to
laugh
or
cry.
In
a
moment,
the
butler
came
to
her
rescue,
telling
her
that
dinner
was
served.
As
the
figure
of
the
Warden
emerged
from
Salt
Cellar
into
the
Front
Quadrangle,
a
hush
fell
on
the
group
of
gowned
Fellows
outside
the
Hall.
Most
of
them
had
only
just
been
told
the
news,
and
(such
is
the
force
of
routine
in
an
University)
were
still
sceptical
of
it.
And
in
face
of
these
doubts
the
three
or
four
dons
who
had
been
down
at
the
river
were
now
half
ready
to
believe
that
there
must,
after
all,
be
some
mistake,
and
that
in
this
world
of
illusions
they
had
to-night
been
specially
tricked.
To
rebut
this
theory,
there
was
the
notable
absence
of
undergraduates.
Or
was
this
an
illusion,
too?
Men
of
thought,
agile
on
the
plane
of
ideas,
devils
of
fellows
among
books,
they
groped
feebly
in
this
matter
of
actual
life
and
death.
The
sight
of
their
Warden
heartened
them.
After
all,
he
was
the
responsible
person.
He
was
father
of
the
flock
that
had
strayed,
and
grandfather
of
the
beautiful
Miss
Zuleika.
Like
her,
they
remembered
not
to
smile
in
greeting
him.
“Good
evening,
gentlemen,”
he
said.
“The
storm
seems
to
have
passed.”
There
was
a
murmur
of
“Yes,
Warden.”
“And
how
did
our
boat
acquit
itself?”
There
was
a
shuffling
pause.
Every
one
looked
at
the
Sub-Warden:
it
was
manifestly
for
him
to
break
the
news,
or
to
report
the
hallucination.
He
was
nudged
forward--a
large
man,
with
a
large
beard
at
which
he
plucked
nervously.
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