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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
39
“Come
in!”
he
cried
mechanically.
Entered
the
landlady’s
daughter.
“A
lady
downstairs,”
she
said,
“asking
to
see
your
Grace.
Says
she’ll
step
round
again
later
if
your
Grace
is
busy.”
“What
is
her
name?”
asked
the
Duke,
vacantly.
He
was
gazing
at
the
girl
with
pain-shot
eyes.
“Miss
Zuleika
Dobson,”
pronounced
the
girl.
He
rose.
“Show
Miss
Dobson
up,”
he
said.
Noaks
had
darted
to
the
looking-glass
and
was
smoothing
his
hair
with
a
tremulous,
enormous
hand.
“Go!”
said
the
Duke,
pointing
to
the
door.
Noaks
went,
quickly.
Echoes
of
his
boots
fell
from
the
upper
stairs
and
met
the
ascending
susurrus
of
a
silk
skirt.
The
lovers
met.
There
was
an
interchange
of
ordinary
greetings:
from
the
Duke,
a
comment
on
the
weather;
from
Zuleika,
a
hope
that
he
was
well
again--they
had
been
so
sorry
to
lose
him
last
night.
Then
came
a
pause.
The
landlady’s
daughter
was
clearing
away
the
breakfast-things.
Zuleika
glanced
comprehensively
at
the
room,
and
the
Duke
gazed
at
the
hearthrug.
The
landlady’s
daughter
clattered
out
with
her
freight.
They
were
alone.
“How
pretty!”
said
Zuleika.
She
was
looking
at
his
star
of
the
Garter,
which
sparkled
from
a
litter
of
books
and
papers
on
a
small
side-table.
“Yes,”
he
answered.
“It
is
pretty,
isn’t
it?”
“Awfully
pretty!”
she
rejoined.
This
dialogue
led
them
to
another
hollow
pause.
The
Duke’s
heart
beat
violently
within
him.
Why
had
he
not
asked
her
to
take
the
star
and
keep
it
as
a
gift?
Too
late
now!
Why
could
he
not
throw
himself
at
her
feet?
Here
were
two
beings,
lovers
of
each
other,
with
none
by.
And
yet...
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