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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
57
The
Duke
withdrew
his
fingers
before
she
unclasped
them.
That
twice-flung
taunt
rankled
still.
It
was
monstrous
to
have
been
called
a
snob.
A
snob!--he,
whose
readiness
to
form
what
would
certainly
be
regarded
as
a
shocking
misalliance
ought
to
have
stifled
the
charge,
not
merely
vindicated
him
from
it!
He
had
forgotten,
in
the
blindness
of
his
love,
how
shocking
the
misalliance
would
be.
Perhaps
she,
unloving,
had
not
been
so
forgetful?
Perhaps
her
refusal
had
been
made,
generously,
for
his
own
sake.
Nay,
rather
for
her
own.
Evidently,
she
had
felt
that
the
high
sphere
from
which
he
beckoned
was
no
place
for
the
likes
of
her.
Evidently,
she
feared
she
would
pine
away
among
those
strange
splendours,
never
be
acclimatised,
always
be
unworthy.
He
had
thought
to
overwhelm
her,
and
he
had
done
his
work
too
thoroughly.
Now
he
must
try
to
lighten
the
load
he
had
imposed.
Seating
himself
opposite
to
her,
“You
remember,”
he
said,
“that
there
is
a
dairy
at
Tankerton?”
“A
dairy?
Oh
yes.”
“Do
you
remember
what
it
is
called?”
Zuleika
knit
her
brows.
He
helped
her
out.
“It
is
called
‘Her
Grace’s’.”
“Oh,
of
course!”
said
Zuleika.
“Do
you
know
WHY
it
is
called
so?”
“Well,
let’s
see...
I
know
you
told
me.”
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