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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
42
Zuleika,
listening
to
him,
had
grown
gradually
paler
and
paler.
She
had
raised
her
hands
and
cowered
as
though
he
were
about
to
strike
her.
And
then,
as
he
pronounced
the
last
three
words,
she
had
clasped
her
hands
to
her
face
and
with
a
wild
sob
darted
away
from
him.
She
was
leaning
now
against
the
window,
her
head
bowed
and
her
shoulders
quivering.
The
Duke
came
softly
behind
her.
“Why
should
you
cry?
Why
should
you
turn
away
from
me?
Did
I
frighten
you
with
the
suddenness
of
my
words?
I
am
not
versed
in
the
tricks
of
wooing.
I
should
have
been
more
patient.
But
I
love
you
so
much
that
I
could
hardly
have
waited.
A
secret
hope
that
you
loved
me
too
emboldened
me,
compelled
me.
You
DO
love
me.
I
know
it.
And,
knowing
it,
I
do
but
ask
you
to
give
yourself
to
me,
to
be
my
wife.
Why
should
you
cry?
Why
should
you
shrink
from
me?
Dear,
if
there
were
anything...
any
secret...
if
you
had
ever
loved
and
been
deceived,
do
you
think
I
should
honour
you
the
less
deeply,
should
not
cherish
you
the
more
tenderly?
Enough
for
me,
that
you
are
mine.
Do
you
think
I
should
ever
reproach
you
for
anything
that
may
have--”
Zuleika
turned
on
him.
“How
dare
you?”
she
gasped.
“How
dare
you
speak
to
me
like
that?”
The
Duke
reeled
back.
Horror
had
come
into
his
eyes.
“You
do
not
love
me!”
he
cried.
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