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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
33
IV
The
breakfast-things
were
not
yet
cleared
away.
A
plate
streaked
with
fine
strains
of
marmalade,
an
empty
toast-rack,
a
broken
roll--these
and
other
things
bore
witness
to
a
day
inaugurated
in
the
right
spirit.
Away
from
them,
reclining
along
his
window-seat,
was
the
Duke.
Blue
spirals
rose
from
his
cigarette,
nothing
in
the
still
air
to
trouble
them.
From
their
railing,
across
the
road,
the
Emperors
gazed
at
him.
For
a
young
man,
sleep
is
a
sure
solvent
of
distress.
There
whirls
not
for
him
in
the
night
any
so
hideous
a
phantasmagoria
as
will
not
become,
in
the
clarity
of
next
morning,
a
spruce
procession
for
him
to
lead.
Brief
the
vague
horror
of
his
awakening;
memory
sweeps
back
to
him,
and
he
sees
nothing
dreadful
after
all.
“Why
not?”
is
the
sun’s
bright
message
to
him,
and
“Why
not
indeed?”
his
answer.
After
hours
of
agony
and
doubt
prolonged
to
cock-crow,
sleep
had
stolen
to
the
Duke’s
bed-side.
He
awoke
late,
with
a
heavy
sense
of
disaster;
but
lo!
when
he
remembered,
everything
took
on
a
new
aspect.
He
was
in
love.
“Why
not?”
He
mocked
himself
for
the
morbid
vigil
he
had
spent
in
probing
and
vainly
binding
the
wounds
of
his
false
pride.
The
old
life
was
done
with.
He
laughed
as
he
stepped
into
his
bath.
Why
should
the
disseizin
of
his
soul
have
seemed
shameful
to
him?
He
had
had
no
soul
till
it
passed
out
of
his
keeping.
His
body
thrilled
to
the
cold
water,
his
soul
as
to
a
new
sacrament.
He
was
in
love,
and
that
was
all
he
wished
for...
There,
on
the
dressing-table,
lay
the
two
studs,
visible
symbols
of
his
love.
Dear
to
him,
now,
the
colours
of
them!
He
took
them
in
his
hand,
one
by
one,
fondling
them.
He
wished
he
could
wear
them
in
the
day-time;
but
this,
of
course,
was
impossible.
His
toilet
finished,
he
dropped
them
into
the
left
pocket
of
his
waistcoat.
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