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290
Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
288
“Melisande,
that
crackling
of
tissue
paper
is
driving
me
mad!
Do
leave
off!
Can’t
you
see
that
I
am
waiting
to
be
undressed?”
The
maid
hastened
to
her
side,
and
with
quick
light
fingers
began
to
undress
her.
“Mademoiselle
va
bien
dormir--ca
se
voit,”
she
purred.
“I
shan’t,”
said
Zuleika.
Nevertheless,
it
was
soothing
to
be
undressed,
and
yet
more
soothing
anon
to
sit
merely
night-gowned
before
the
mirror,
while,
slowly
and
gently,
strongly
and
strand
by
strand,
Melisande
brushed
her
hair.
After
all,
it
didn’t
so
much
matter
what
the
world
thought.
Let
the
world
whisper
and
insinuate
what
it
would.
To
slur
and
sully,
to
belittle
and
drag
down--that
was
what
the
world
always
tried
to
do.
But
great
things
were
still
great,
and
fair
things
still
fair.
With
no
thought
for
the
world’s
opinion
had
these
men
gone
down
to
the
water
to-day.
Their
deed
was
for
her
and
themselves
alone.
It
had
sufficed
them.
Should
it
not
suffice
her?
It
did,
oh
it
did.
She
was
a
wretch
to
have
repined.
At
a
gesture
from
her,
Melisande
brought
to
a
close
the
rhythmical
ministrations,
and--using
no
tissue
paper
this
time--did
what
was
yet
to
be
done
among
the
trunks.
“WE
know,
you
and
I,”
Zuleika
whispered
to
the
adorable
creature
in
the
mirror;
and
the
adorable
creature
gave
back
her
nod
and
smile.
THEY
knew,
these
two.
Yet,
in
their
happiness,
rose
and
floated
a
shadow
between
them.
It
was
the
ghost
of
that
one
man
who--THEY
knew--had
died
irrelevantly,
with
a
cold
heart.
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