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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
60
Try
as
she
would,
she
could
but
stamp
her
feet
flat
on
the
parquet,
as
though
it
had
been
the
village-green.
She
dreaded
her
music-lesson.
Her
fingers,
disobedient
to
her
ambition,
clumsily
thumped
the
keys
of
the
spinet,
and
by
the
notes
of
the
score
propped
up
before
her
she
was
as
cruelly
perplexed
as
by
the
black
and
red
pips
of
the
cards
she
conned
at
the
gaming-table,
or
by
the
red
and
gold
threads
that
were
always
straying
and
snapping
on
her
tambour-frame.
Still
she
persevered.
Day
in,
day
out,
sullenly,
she
worked
hard
to
be
a
great
lady.
But
skill
came
not
to
her,
and
hope
dwindled;
only
the
dull
effort
remained.
One
accomplishment
she
did
master--to
wit,
the
vapours:
they
became
for
her
a
dreadful
reality.
She
lost
her
appetite
for
the
fine
hot
dishes.
All
night
long
she
lay
awake,
restless,
tearful,
under
the
fine
silk
canopy,
till
dawn
stared
her
into
slumber.
She
seldom
scolded
Betty.
She
who
had
been
so
lusty
and
so
blooming
saw
in
her
mirror
that
she
was
pale
and
thin
now;
and
the
fine
young
gentlemen,
seeing
it
too,
paid
more
heed
now
to
their
wine
and
their
dice
than
to
her.
And
always,
when
she
met
him,
the
Duke
smiled
the
same
mocking
smile.
Duchess
Meg
was
pining
slowly
and
surely
away...
One
morning,
in
Spring-time,
she
altogether
vanished.
Betty,
bringing
the
cup
of
chocolate
to
the
bedside,
found
the
bed
empty.
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