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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
268
She--yes,
it
was
she
herself--came
gliding
to
the
middle
of
the
road,
gazing
up
at
him.
“At
last!”
he
heard
her
say.
His
instinct
was
to
hide
himself
from
the
queen
he
had
not
died
for.
Yet
he
could
not
move.
“Or,”
she
quavered,
“are
you
a
phantom
sent
to
mock
me?
Speak!”
“Good
evening,”
he
said
huskily.
“I
knew,”
she
murmured,
“I
knew
the
gods
were
not
so
cruel.
Oh
man
of
my
need,”
she
cried,
stretching
out
her
arms
to
him,
“oh
heaven-sent,
I
see
you
only
as
a
dark
outline
against
the
light
of
your
room.
But
I
know
you.
Your
name
is
Noaks,
isn’t
it?
Dobson
is
mine.
I
am
your
Warden’s
grand-daughter.
I
am
faint
and
foot-sore.
I
have
ranged
this
desert
city
in
search
of--of
YOU.
Let
me
hear
from
your
own
lips
that
you
love
me.
Tell
me
in
your
own
words--”
She
broke
off
with
a
little
scream,
and
did
not
stand
with
forefinger
pointed
at
him,
gazing,
gasping.
“Listen,
Miss
Dobson,”
he
stammered,
writhing
under
what
he
took
to
be
the
lash
of
her
irony.
“Give
me
time
to
explain.
You
see
me
here--”
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