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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
283
“Well?
and
what
is
there
so--so
ridiculous
in”--but
the
rest
was
lost
in
trill
after
trill
of
laughter;
and
these
were
then
lost
in
sobs.
The
Warden
had
risen
from
his
chair.
“My
dear,”
he
said,
“I
wasn’t
laughing.
I
was
only--trying
to
imagine.
If
you
really
want
to
retire
from--”
“I
do,”
moaned
Zuleika.
“Then
perhaps--”
“But
I
don’t,”
she
wailed.
“Of
course,
you
don’t,
my
dear.”
“Why,
of
course?”
“Come,
you
are
tired,
my
poor
child.
That
is
very
natural
after
this
wonderful,
this
historic
day.
Come
dry
your
eyes.
There,
that’s
better.
To-morrow--”
“I
do
believe
you’re
a
little
proud
of
me.”
“Heaven
forgive
me,
I
believe
I
am.
A
grandfather’s
heart--But
there,
good
night,
my
dear.
Let
me
light
your
candle.”
She
took
her
cloak,
and
followed
him
out
to
the
hall
table.
There
she
mentioned
that
she
was
going
away
early
to-morrow.
“To
the
convent?”
he
slyly
asked.
“Ah,
don’t
tease
me,
grand-papa.”
“Well,
I
am
sorry
you
are
going
away,
my
dear.
But
perhaps,
in
the
circumstances,
it
is
best.
You
must
come
and
stay
here
again,
later
on,”
he
said,
handing
her
the
lit
candle.
“Not
in
term-time,
though,”
he
added.
“No,”
she
echoed,
“not
in
term-time.”
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