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290
Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
289
Came
also
the
horrid
little
ghost
of
one
who
had
died
late
and
unseemly.
And
now,
thick
and
fast,
swept
a
whole
multitude
of
other
ghosts,
the
ghosts
of
all
them
who,
being
dead,
could
not
die
again;
the
poor
ghosts
of
them
who
had
done
what
they
could,
and
could
do
no
more.
No
more?
Was
it
not
enough?
The
lady
in
the
mirror
gazed
at
the
lady
in
the
room,
reproachfully
at
first,
then--for
were
they
not
sisters?--relentingly,
then
pityingly.
Each
of
the
two
covered
her
face
with
her
hands.
And
there
recurred,
as
by
stealth,
to
the
lady
in
the
room
a
thought
that
had
assailed
her
not
long
ago
in
Judas
Street...
a
thought
about
the
power
of
example...
And
now,
with
pent
breath
and
fast-beating
heart,
she
stood
staring
at
the
lady
of
the
mirror,
without
seeing
her;
and
now
she
wheeled
round
and
swiftly
glided
to
that
little
table
on
which
stood
her
two
books.
She
snatched
Bradshaw.
We
always
intervene
between
Bradshaw
and
any
one
whom
we
see
consulting
him.
“Mademoiselle
will
permit
me
to
find
that
which
she
seeks?”
asked
Melisande.
“Be
quiet,”
said
Zuleika.
We
always
repulse,
at
first,
any
one
who
intervenes
between
us
and
Bradshaw.
We
always
end
by
accepting
the
intervention.
“See
if
it
is
possible
to
go
direct
from
here
to
Cambridge,”
said
Zuleika,
handing
the
book
on.
“If
it
isn’t,
then--well,
see
how
to
get
there.”
We
never
have
any
confidence
in
the
intervener.
Nor
is
the
intervener,
when
it
comes
to
the
point,
sanguine.
With
mistrust
mounting
to
exasperation
Zuleika
sat
watching
the
faint
and
frantic
researches
of
her
maid.
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