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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
53
Zuleika
looked
down
at
her
skirt.
“I
don’t
know,”
she
said.
“I
got
it
in
Paris.”
“Well,”
said
the
Duke,
“it
is
very
ugly.
The
Dalbraith
tartan
is
harmonious
in
comparison,
and
has,
at
least,
the
excuse
of
history.
If
you
married
me,
you
would
have
the
right
to
wear
it.
You
would
have
many
strange
and
fascinating
rights.
You
would
go
to
Court.
I
admit
that
the
Hanoverian
Court
is
not
much.
Still,
it
is
better
than
nothing.
At
your
presentation,
moreover,
you
would
be
given
the
entree.
Is
that
nothing
to
you?
You
would
be
driven
to
Court
in
my
statecoach.
It
is
swung
so
high
that
the
streetsters
can
hardly
see
its
occupant.
It
is
lined
with
rose-silk;
and
on
its
panels,
and
on
its
hammer-cloth,
my
arms
are
emblazoned--no
one
has
ever
been
able
to
count
the
quarterings.
You
would
be
wearing
the
family-jewels,
reluctantly
surrendered
to
you
by
my
aunt.
They
are
many
and
marvellous,
in
their
antique
settings.
I
don’t
want
to
brag.
It
humiliates
me
to
speak
to
you
as
I
am
speaking.
But
I
am
heart-set
on
you,
and
to
win
you
there
is
not
a
precious
stone
I
would
leave
unturned.
Conceive
a
parure
all
of
white
stones--diamonds,
white
sapphires,
white
topazes,
tourmalines.
Another,
of
rubies
and
amethysts,
set
in
gold
filigree.
Rings
that
once
were
poison-combs
on
Florentine
fingers.
Red
roses
for
your
hair--every
petal
a
hollowed
ruby.
Amulets
and
ape-buckles,
zones
and
fillets.
Aye!
know
that
you
would
be
weeping
for
wonder
before
you
had
seen
a
tithe
of
these
gauds.
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