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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
31
“I
beg
your
pardon?”
asked
the
Duke.
Dessert,
he
noticed,
was
on
the
table,
and
he
was
paring
an
apple.
The
Oriel
don
was
looking
at
him
with
sympathy,
as
at
one
who
had
swooned
and
was
just
“coming
to.”
“Is
it
true,
my
dear
Duke,”
the
Warden
repeated,
“that
you
have
been
persuaded
to
play
to-morrow
evening
at
the
Judas
concert?”
“Ah
yes,
I
am
going
to
play
something.”
Zuleika
bent
suddenly
forward,
addressed
him.
“Oh,”
she
cried,
clasping
her
hands
beneath
her
chin,
“will
you
let
me
come
and
turn
over
the
leaves
for
you?”
He
looked
her
full
in
the
face.
It
was
like
seeing
suddenly
at
close
quarters
some
great
bright
monument
that
one
has
long
known
only
as
a
sun-caught
speck
in
the
distance.
He
saw
the
large
violet
eyes
open
to
him,
and
their
lashes
curling
to
him;
the
vivid
parted
lips;
and
the
black
pearl,
and
the
pink.
“You
are
very
kind,”
he
murmured,
in
a
voice
which
sounded
to
him
quite
far
away.
“But
I
always
play
without
notes.”
Zuleika
blushed.
Not
with
shame,
but
with
delirious
pleasure.
For
that
snub
she
would
just
then
have
bartered
all
the
homage
she
had
hoarded.
This,
she
felt,
was
the
climax.
She
would
not
outstay
it.
She
rose,
smiling
to
the
wife
of
the
Oriel
don.
Every
one
rose.
The
Oriel
don
held
open
the
door,
and
the
two
ladies
passed
out
of
the
room.
The
Duke
drew
out
his
cigarette
case.
As
he
looked
down
at
the
cigarettes,
he
was
vaguely
conscious
of
some
strange
phenomenon
somewhere
between
them
and
his
eyes.
Foredone
by
the
agitation
of
the
past
hour,
he
did
not
at
once
realise
what
it
was
that
he
saw.
His
impression
was
of
something
in
bad
taste,
some
discord
in
his
costume
...
a
black
pearl
and
a
pink
pearl
in
his
shirt-front!
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