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290
Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
49
V
Luncheon
passed
in
almost
unbroken
silence.
Both
Zuleika
and
the
Duke
were
ravenously
hungry,
as
people
always
are
after
the
stress
of
any
great
emotional
crisis.
Between
them,
they
made
very
short
work
of
a
cold
chicken,
a
salad,
a
gooseberry-tart
and
a
Camembert.
The
Duke
filled
his
glass
again
and
again.
The
cold
classicism
of
his
face
had
been
routed
by
the
new
romantic
movement
which
had
swept
over
his
soul.
He
looked
two
or
three
months
older
than
when
first
I
showed
him
to
my
reader.
He
drank
his
coffee
at
one
draught,
pushed
back
his
chair,
threw
away
the
cigarette
he
had
just
lit.
“Listen!”
he
said.
Zuleika
folded
her
hands
on
her
lap.
“You
do
not
love
me.
I
accept
as
final
your
hint
that
you
never
will
love
me.
I
need
not
say--could
not,
indeed,
ever
say--how
deeply,
deeply
you
have
pained
me.
As
lover,
I
am
rejected.
But
that
rejection,”
he
continued,
striking
the
table,
“is
no
stopper
to
my
suit.
It
does
but
drive
me
to
the
use
of
arguments.
My
pride
shrinks
from
them.
Love,
however,
is
greater
than
pride;
and
I,
John,
Albert,
Edward,
Claude,
Orde,
Angus,
Tankerton,*
Tanville-Tankerton,**
fourteenth
Duke
of
Dorset,
Marquis
of
Dorset,
Earl
of
Grove,
Earl
of
Chastermaine,
Viscount
Brewsby,
Baron
Grove,
Baron
Petstrap,
and
Baron
Wolock,
in
the
Peerage
of
England,
offer
you
my
hand.
Do
not
interrupt
me.
Do
not
toss
your
head.
Consider
well
what
I
am
saying.
Weigh
the
advantages
you
would
gain
by
acceptance
of
my
hand.
Indeed,
they
are
manifold
and
tremendous.
They
are
also
obvious:
do
not
shut
your
eyes
to
them.
You,
Miss
Dobson,
what
are
you?
A
conjurer,
and
a
vagrant;
without
means,
save
such
as
you
can
earn
by
the
sleight
of
your
hand;
without
position;
without
a
home;
all
unguarded
but
by
your
own
self-respect.
That
you
follow
an
honourable
calling,
I
do
not
for
one
moment
deny.
I
do,
however,
ask
you
to
consider
how
great
are
its
perils
and
hardships,
its
fatigues
and
inconveniences.
From
all
these
evils
I
offer
you
instant
refuge.
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