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290
Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
271
“What’s
that?”
gasped
Zuleika.
“Didn’t
he
tell
you?
He
told
me.
And
I
warrant
he
told
you,
too.”
“He
died
for
love
of
me:
d’you
hear?”
“Ah,
you’d
like
people
to
think
so,
wouldn’t
you?
Does
a
man
who
loves
a
woman
give
away
the
keepsake
she
gave
him?
Look!”
Katie
leaned
forward,
pointing
to
her
ear-rings.
“He
loved
ME,”
she
cried.
“He
put
them
in
with
his
own
hands--told
me
to
wear
them
always.
And
he
kissed
me--kissed
me
good-bye
in
the
street,
where
every
one
could
see.
He
kissed
me,”
she
sobbed.
“No
other
man
shall
ever
do
that.”
“Ah,
that
he
did!”
said
a
voice
level
with
Zuleika.
It
was
the
voice
of
Mrs.
Batch,
who
a
few
moments
ago
had
opened
the
door
for
her
departing
guests.
“Ah,
that
he
did!”
echoed
the
guests.
“Never
mind
them,
Miss
Dobson,”
cried
Noaks,
and
at
the
sound
of
his
voice
Mrs.
Batch
rushed
into
the
middle
of
the
road,
to
gaze
up.
“I
love
you.
Think
what
you
will
of
me.
I--”
“You!”
flashed
Zuleika.
“As
for
you,
little
Sir
Lily
Liver,
leaning
out
there,
and,
I
frankly
tell
you,
looking
like
nothing
so
much
as
a
gargoyle
hewn
by
a
drunken
stone-mason
for
the
adornment
of
a
Methodist
Chapel
in
one
of
the
vilest
suburbs
of
Leeds
or
Wigan,
I
do
but
felicitate
the
river-god
and
his
nymphs
that
their
water
was
saved
to-day
by
your
cowardice
from
the
contamination
of
your
plunge.”
“Shame
on
you,
Mr.
Noaks,”
said
Mrs.
Batch,
“making
believe
you
were
dead--”
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