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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
32
Just
for
a
moment,
absurdly
over-estimating
poor
Zuleika’s
skill,
he
supposed
himself
a
victim
of
legerdemain.
Another
moment,
and
the
import
of
the
studs
revealed
itself.
He
staggered
up
from
his
chair,
covering
his
breast
with
one
arm,
and
murmured
that
he
was
faint.
As
he
hurried
from
the
room,
the
Oriel
don
was
pouring
out
a
tumbler
of
water
and
suggesting
burnt
feathers.
The
Warden,
solicitous,
followed
him
into
the
hall.
He
snatched
up
his
hat,
gasping
that
he
had
spent
a
delightful
evening--was
very
sorry--was
subject
to
these
attacks.
Once
outside,
he
took
frankly
to
his
heels.
At
the
corner
of
the
Broad,
he
looked
back
over
his
shoulder.
He
had
half
expected
a
scarlet
figure
skimming
in
pursuit.
There
was
nothing.
He
halted.
Before
him,
the
Broad
lay
empty
beneath
the
moon.
He
went
slowly,
mechanically,
to
his
rooms.
The
high
grim
busts
of
the
Emperors
stared
down
at
him,
their
faces
more
than
ever
tragically
cavernous
and
distorted.
They
saw
and
read
in
that
moonlight
the
symbols
on
his
breast.
As
he
stood
on
his
doorstep,
waiting
for
the
door
to
be
opened,
he
must
have
seemed
to
them
a
thing
for
infinite
compassion.
For
were
they
not
privy
to
the
doom
that
the
morrow,
or
the
morrow’s
morrow,
held
for
him--held
not
indeed
for
him
alone,
yet
for
him
especially,
as
it
were,
and
for
him
most
lamentably?
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