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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
6
II
The
sun
streamed
through
the
bay-window
of
a
“best”
bedroom
in
the
Warden’s
house,
and
glorified
the
pale
crayon-portraits
on
the
wall,
the
dimity
curtains,
the
old
fresh
chintz.
He
invaded
the
many
trunks
which--all
painted
Z.
D.--gaped,
in
various
stages
of
excavation,
around
the
room.
The
doors
of
the
huge
wardrobe
stood,
like
the
doors
of
Janus’
temple
in
time
of
war,
majestically
open;
and
the
sun
seized
this
opportunity
of
exploring
the
mahogany
recesses.
But
the
carpet,
which
had
faded
under
his
immemorial
visitations,
was
now
almost
ENTIRELY
hidden
from
him,
hidden
under
layers
of
fair
fine
linen,
layers
of
silk,
brocade,
satin,
chiffon,
muslin.
All
the
colours
of
the
rainbow,
materialised
by
modistes,
were
there.
Stacked
on
chairs
were
I
know
not
what
of
sachets,
glove-cases,
fan-cases.
There
were
innumerable
packages
in
silver-paper
and
pink
ribands.
There
was
a
pyramid
of
bandboxes.
There
was
a
virgin
forest
of
boot-trees.
And
rustling
quickly
hither
and
thither,
in
and
out
of
this
profusion,
with
armfuls
of
finery,
was
an
obviously
French
maid.
Alert,
unerring,
like
a
swallow
she
dipped
and
darted.
Nothing
escaped
her,
and
she
never
rested.
She
had
the
air
of
the
born
unpacker--swift
and
firm,
yet
withal
tender.
Scarce
had
her
arms
been
laden
but
their
loads
were
lying
lightly
between
shelves
or
tightly
in
drawers.
To
calculate,
catch,
distribute,
seemed
in
her
but
a
single
process.
She
was
one
of
those
who
are
born
to
make
chaos
cosmic.
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