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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
37
“Oh,
my
dear
fellow,
don’t
go,”
said
the
Duke.
“Sit
down.
Our
Schools
don’t
come
on
for
another
year.
A
few
minutes
can’t
make
a
difference
in
your
Class.
I
want
to--to
tell
you
something,
Noaks.
Do
sit
down.”
Noaks
sat
down
on
the
edge
of
a
chair.
The
Duke
leaned
against
the
mantel-piece,
facing
him.
“I
suppose,
Noaks,”
he
said,
“you
have
never
been
in
love.”
“Why
shouldn’t
I
have
been
in
love?”
asked
the
little
man,
angrily.
“I
can’t
imagine
you
in
love,”
said
the
Duke,
smiling.
“And
I
can’t
imagine
YOU.
You’re
too
pleased
with
yourself,”
growled
Noaks.
“Spur
your
imagination,
Noaks,”
said
his
friend.
“I
AM
in
love.”
“So
am
I,”
was
an
unexpected
answer,
and
the
Duke
(whose
need
of
sympathy
was
too
new
to
have
taught
him
sympathy
with
others)
laughed
aloud.
“Whom
do
you
love?”
he
asked,
throwing
himself
into
an
arm-chair.
“I
don’t
know
who
she
is,”
was
another
unexpected
answer.
“When
did
you
meet
her?”
asked
the
Duke.
“Where?
What
did
you
say
to
her?”
“Yesterday.
In
the
Corn.
I
didn’t
SAY
anything
to
her.”
“Is
she
beautiful?”
“Yes.
What’s
that
to
you?”
“Dark
or
fair?”
“She’s
dark.
She
looks
like
a
foreigner.
She
looks
like--like
one
of
those
photographs
in
the
shop-windows.”
“A
rhapsody,
Noaks!
What
became
of
her?
Was
she
alone?”
“She
was
with
the
old
Warden,
in
his
carriage.”
Zuleika--Noaks!
The
Duke
started,
as
at
an
affront,
and
glared.
Next
moment,
he
saw
the
absurdity
of
the
situation.
He
relapsed
into
his
chair,
smiling.
“She’s
the
Warden’s
niece,”
he
said.
“I
dined
at
the
Warden’s
last
night.”
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