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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
56
In
me
you
behold
a
Prince
of
the
Holy
Roman
Empire,
and
a
Knight
of
the
Most
Noble
Order
of
the
Garter.
Look
well
at
me!
I
am
Hereditary
Comber
of
the
Queen’s
Lap-Dogs.
I
am
young.
I
am
handsome.
My
temper
is
sweet,
and
my
character
without
blemish.
In
fine,
Miss
Dobson,
I
am
a
most
desirable
parti.”
“But,”
said
Zuleika,
“I
don’t
love
you.”
The
Duke
stamped
his
foot.
“I
beg
your
pardon,”
he
said
hastily.
“I
ought
not
to
have
done
that.
But--you
seem
to
have
entirely
missed
the
point
of
what
I
was
saying.”
“No,
I
haven’t,”
said
Zuleika.
“Then
what,”
cried
the
Duke,
standing
over
her,
“what
is
your
reply?”
Said
Zuleika,
looking
up
at
him,
“My
reply
is
that
I
think
you
are
an
awful
snob.”
The
Duke
turned
on
his
heel,
and
strode
to
the
other
end
of
the
room.
There
he
stood
for
some
moments,
his
back
to
Zuleika.
“I
think,”
she
resumed
in
a
slow,
meditative
voice,
“that
you
are,
with
the
possible
exception
of
a
Mr.
Edelweiss,
THE
most
awful
snob
I
have
ever
met.”
The
Duke
looked
back
over
his
shoulder.
He
gave
Zuleika
the
stinging
reprimand
of
silence.
She
was
sorry,
and
showed
it
in
her
eyes.
She
felt
she
had
gone
too
far.
True,
he
was
nothing
to
her
now.
But
she
had
loved
him
once.
She
could
not
forget
that.
“Come!”
she
said.
“Let
us
be
good
friends.
Give
me
your
hand!”
He
came
to
her,
slowly.
“There!”
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