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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
45
“You
are
frightfully
sorry
for
yourself,”
said
Zuleika,
with
a
bitter
laugh.
“Of
course
it
doesn’t
occur
to
you
that
I
am
at
all
to
be
pitied.
No!
you
are
blind
with
selfishness.
You
love
me--I
don’t
love
you:
that
is
all
you
can
realise.
Probably
you
think
you
are
the
first
man
who
has
ever
fallen
on
such
a
plight.”
Said
the
Duke,
bowing
over
a
deprecatory
hand,
“If
there
were
to
pass
my
window
one
tithe
of
them
whose
hearts
have
been
lost
to
Miss
Dobson,
I
should
win
no
solace
from
that
interminable
parade.”
Zuleika
blushed.
“Yet,”
she
said
more
gently,
“be
sure
they
would
all
be
not
a
little
envious
of
YOU!
Not
one
of
them
ever
touched
the
surface
of
my
heart.
You
stirred
my
heart
to
its
very
depths.
Yes,
you
made
me
love
you
madly.
The
pearls
told
you
no
lie.
You
were
my
idol--the
one
thing
in
the
wide
world
to
me.
You
were
so
different
from
any
man
I
had
ever
seen
except
in
dreams.
You
did
not
make
a
fool
of
yourself.
I
admired
you.
I
respected
you.
I
was
all
afire
with
adoration
of
you.
And
now,”
she
passed
her
hand
across
her
eyes,
“now
it
is
all
over.
The
idol
has
come
sliding
down
its
pedestal
to
fawn
and
grovel
with
all
the
other
infatuates
in
the
dust
about
my
feet.”
The
Duke
looked
thoughtfully
at
her.
“I
thought,”
he
said,
“that
you
revelled
in
your
power
over
men’s
hearts.
I
had
always
heard
that
you
lived
for
admiration.”
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