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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
279
“I
could
but
try,”
said
Zuleika.
“‘You
could
but
try’
are
the
very
words
Dr.
Pusey
used
to
me.
I
ventured
to
say
that
in
such
a
matter
effort
itself
was
a
stigma
of
unfitness.
For
all
my
moods
of
revulsion,
I
knew
that
my
place
was
in
the
world.
I
stayed
there.”
“But
suppose,
grand-papa”--and,
seeing
in
fancy
the
vast
agitated
flotilla
of
crinolines,
she
could
not
forbear
a
smile--“suppose
all
the
young
ladies
of
that
period
had
drowned
themselves
for
love
of
you?”
Her
smile
seemed
to
nettle
the
Warden.
“I
was
greatly
admired,”
he
said.
“Greatly,”
he
repeated.
“And
you
liked
that,
grand-papa?”
“Yes,
my
dear.
Yes,
I
am
afraid
I
did.
But
I
never
encouraged
it.”
“Your
own
heart
was
never
touched?”
“Never,
until
I
met
Laura
Frith.”
“Who
was
she?”
“She
was
my
future
wife.”
“And
how
was
it
you
singled
her
out
from
the
rest?
Was
she
very
beautiful?”
“No.
It
cannot
be
said
that
she
was
beautiful.
Indeed,
she
was
accounted
plain.
I
think
it
was
her
great
dignity
that
attracted
me.
She
did
not
smile
archly
at
me,
nor
shake
her
ringlets.
In
those
days
it
was
the
fashion
for
young
ladies
to
embroider
slippers
for
such
men
in
holy
orders
as
best
pleased
their
fancy.
I
received
hundreds--thousands--of
such
slippers.
But
never
a
pair
from
Laura
Frith.”
“She
did
not
love
you?”
asked
Zuleika,
who
had
seated
herself
on
the
floor
at
her
grandfather’s
feet.
I
concluded
that
she
did
not.
It
interested
me
very
greatly.
It
fired
me.
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