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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
267
This
happened
to
be
precisely
what
he
himself
was
wondering.
Not
that
he
wished
himself
free.
He
was
one
of
those
in
whom
the
will
does
not,
except
under
very
great
pressure,
oppose
the
conscience.
What
pressure
here?
Miss
Batch
was
a
superior
girl;
she
would
grace
any
station
in
life.
He
had
always
been
rather
in
awe
of
her.
It
was
a
fine
thing
to
be
suddenly
loved
by
her,
to
be
in
a
position
to
over-rule
her
every
whim.
Plighting
his
troth,
he
had
feared
she
would
be
an
encumbrance,
only
to
find
she
was
a
lever.
But--was
he
deeply
in
love
with
her?
How
was
it
that
he
could
not
at
this
moment
recall
her
features,
or
the
tone
of
her
voice,
while
of
deplorable
Miss
Dobson,
every
lineament,
every
accent,
so
vividly
haunted
him?
Try
as
he
would
to
beat
off
these
memories,
he
failed,
and--some
very
great
pressure
here!--was
glad
he
failed;
glad
though
he
found
himself
relapsing
to
the
self-contempt
from
which
Miss
Batch
had
raised
him.
He
scorned
himself
for
being
alive.
And
again,
he
scorned
himself
for
his
infidelity.
Yet
he
was
glad
he
could
not
forget
that
face,
that
voice--that
queen.
She
had
smiled
at
him
when
she
borrowed
the
ring.
She
had
said
“Thank
you.”
Oh,
and
now,
at
this
very
moment,
sleeping
or
waking,
actually
she
was
somewhere--she!
herself!
This
was
an
incredible,
an
indubitable,
an
all-magical
fact
for
the
little
fellow.
From
the
street
below
came
a
faint
cry
that
was
as
the
cry
of
his
own
heart,
uttered
by
her
own
lips.
Quaking,
he
peered
down,
and
dimly
saw,
over
the
way,
a
cloaked
woman.
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