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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
275
Coming
into
Judas
Street,
she
remembered
the
scene
of
yesterday--the
happy
man
with
her,
the
noise
of
the
vast
happy
crowd.
She
suffered
in
a
worse
form
what
she
had
suffered
in
the
gallery
of
the
Hall.
For
now--did
I
not
say
she
was
not
without
imagination?--her
self-pity
was
sharpened
by
remorse
for
the
hundreds
of
homes
robbed.
She
realised
the
truth
of
what
the
poor
Duke
had
once
said
to
her:
she
was
a
danger
in
the
world...
Aye,
and
all
the
more
dire
now.
What
if
the
youth
of
all
Europe
were
moved
by
Oxford’s
example?
That
was
a
horribly
possible
thing.
It
must
be
reckoned
with.
It
must
be
averted.
She
must
not
show
herself
to
men.
She
must
find
some
hiding-place,
and
there
abide.
Were
this
a
hardship?
she
asked
herself.
Was
she
not
sickened
for
ever
of
men’s
homage?
And
was
it
not
clear
now
that
the
absorbing
need
in
her
soul,
the
need
to
love,
would
never--except
for
a
brief
while,
now
and
then,
and
by
an
unfortunate
misunderstanding--be
fulfilled?
So
long
ago
that
you
may
not
remember,
I
compared
her
favourably
with
the
shepherdess
Marcella,
and
pleaded
her
capacity
for
passion
as
an
excuse
for
her
remaining
at
large.
I
hope
you
will
now,
despite
your
rather
evident
animus
against
her,
set
this
to
her
credit:
that
she
did,
so
soon
as
she
realised
the
hopelessness
of
her
case,
make
just
that
decision
which
I
blamed
Marcella
for
not
making
at
the
outset.
It
was
as
she
stood
on
the
Warden’s
door-step
that
she
decided
to
take
the
veil.
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