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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
30
Conscious
that
every
maiden
he
met
was
eager
to
be
his
Duchess,
he
had
assumed
always
a
manner
of
high
austerity
among
maidens,
and
even
if
he
had
wished
to
flirt
with
Zuleika
he
would
hardly
have
known
how
to
do
it.
But
he
did
not
wish
to
flirt
with
her.
That
she
had
bewitched
him
did
but
make
it
the
more
needful
that
he
should
shun
all
converse
with
her.
It
was
imperative
that
he
should
banish
her
from
his
mind,
quickly.
He
must
not
dilute
his
own
soul’s
essence.
He
must
not
surrender
to
any
passion
his
dandihood.
The
dandy
must
be
celibate,
cloistral;
is,
indeed,
but
a
monk
with
a
mirror
for
beads
and
breviary--an
anchorite,
mortifying
his
soul
that
his
body
may
be
perfect.
Till
he
met
Zuleika,
the
Duke
had
not
known
the
meaning
of
temptation.
He
fought
now,
a
St.
Anthony,
against
the
apparition.
He
would
not
look
at
her,
and
he
hated
her.
He
loved
her,
and
he
could
not
help
seeing
her.
The
black
pearl
and
the
pink
seemed
to
dangle
ever
nearer
and
clearer
to
him,
mocking
him
and
beguiling.
Inexpellible
was
her
image.
So
fierce
was
the
conflict
in
him
that
his
outward
nonchalance
gradually
gave
way.
As
dinner
drew
to
its
close,
his
conversation
with
the
wife
of
the
Oriel
don
flagged
and
halted.
He
sank,
at
length,
into
a
deep
silence.
He
sat
with
downcast
eyes,
utterly
distracted.
Suddenly,
something
fell,
plump!
into
the
dark
whirlpool
of
his
thoughts.
He
started.
The
Warden
was
leaning
forward,
had
just
said
something
to
him.
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