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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
40
She
was
examining
a
water-colour
on
the
wall,
seemed
to
be
absorbed
by
it.
He
watched
her.
She
was
even
lovelier
than
he
had
remembered;
or
rather
her
loveliness
had
been,
in
some
subtle
way,
transmuted.
Something
had
given
to
her
a
graver,
nobler
beauty.
Last
night’s
nymph
had
become
the
Madonna
of
this
morning.
Despite
her
dress,
which
was
of
a
tremendous
tartan,
she
diffused
the
pale
authentic
radiance
of
a
spirituality
most
high,
most
simple.
The
Duke
wondered
where
lay
the
change
in
her.
He
could
not
understand.
Suddenly
she
turned
to
him,
and
he
understood.
No
longer
the
black
pearl
and
the
pink,
but
two
white
pearls!...
He
thrilled
to
his
heart’s
core.
“I
hope,”
said
Zuleika,
“you
aren’t
awfully
vexed
with
me
for
coming
like
this?”
“Not
at
all,”
said
the
Duke.
“I
am
delighted
to
see
you.”
How
inadequate
the
words
sounded,
how
formal
and
stupid!
“The
fact
is,”
she
continued,
“I
don’t
know
a
soul
in
Oxford.
And
I
thought
perhaps
you’d
give
me
luncheon,
and
take
me
to
see
the
boat-races.
Will
you?”
“I
shall
be
charmed,”
he
said,
pulling
the
bell-rope.
Poor
fool!
he
attributed
the
shade
of
disappointment
on
Zuleika’s
face
to
the
coldness
of
his
tone.
He
would
dispel
that
shade.
He
would
avow
himself.
He
would
leave
her
no
longer
in
this
false
position.
So
soon
as
he
had
told
them
about
the
meal,
he
would
proclaim
his
passion.
The
bell
was
answered
by
the
landlady’s
daughter.
“Miss
Dobson
will
stay
to
luncheon,”
said
the
Duke.
The
girl
withdrew.
He
wished
he
could
have
asked
her
not
to.
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