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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
4
“That,”
said
the
Warden,
“is
the
Duke
of
Dorset,
a
member
of
my
College.
He
dines
at
my
table
to-night.”
Zuleika,
turning
to
regard
his
Grace,
saw
that
he
had
not
reined
in
and
was
not
even
glancing
back
at
her
over
his
shoulder.
She
gave
a
little
start
of
dismay,
but
scarcely
had
her
lips
pouted
ere
they
curved
to
a
smile--a
smile
with
no
malice
in
its
corners.
As
the
landau
rolled
into
“the
Corn,”
another
youth--a
pedestrian,
and
very
different--saluted
the
Warden.
He
wore
a
black
jacket,
rusty
and
amorphous.
His
trousers
were
too
short,
and
he
himself
was
too
short:
almost
a
dwarf.
His
face
was
as
plain
as
his
gait
was
undistinguished.
He
squinted
behind
spectacles.
“And
who
is
that?”
asked
Zuleika.
A
deep
flush
overspread
the
cheek
of
the
Warden.
“That,”
he
said,
“is
also
a
member
of
Judas.
His
name,
I
believe,
is
Noaks.”
“Is
he
dining
with
us
to-night?”
asked
Zuleika.
“Certainly
not,”
said
the
Warden.
“Most
decidedly
not.”
Noaks,
unlike
the
Duke,
had
stopped
for
an
ardent
retrospect.
He
gazed
till
the
landau
was
out
of
his
short
sight;
then,
sighing,
resumed
his
solitary
walk.
The
landau
was
rolling
into
“the
Broad,”
over
that
ground
which
had
once
blackened
under
the
fagots
lit
for
Latimer
and
Ridley.
It
rolled
past
the
portals
of
Balliol
and
of
Trinity,
past
the
Ashmolean.
From
those
pedestals
which
intersperse
the
railing
of
the
Sheldonian,
the
high
grim
busts
of
the
Roman
Emperors
stared
down
at
the
fair
stranger
in
the
equipage.
Zuleika
returned
their
stare
with
but
a
casual
glance.
The
inanimate
had
little
charm
for
her.
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