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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
62
Greater
than
ever
was
her
love
of
the
fine
furbelows
that
were
hers
to
flaunt
in,
and
sharper
her
appetite
for
the
fine
hot
dishes,
and
more
tempestuous
her
scolding
of
Betty,
poor
maid.
She
was
more
than
ever
now
the
cynosure,
the
adored,
of
the
fine
young
gentlemen.
And
as
for
her
husband,
she
looked
up
to
him
as
the
wisest,
kindest
man
in
all
the
world.”
“And
the
fine
young
gentlemen,”
said
Zuleika,
“did
she
fall
in
love
with
any
of
them?”
“You
forget,”
said
the
Duke
coldly,
“she
was
married
to
a
member
of
my
family.”
“Oh,
I
beg
your
pardon.
But
tell
me:
did
they
ALL
adore
her?”
“Yes.
Every
one
of
them,
wildly,
madly.”
“Ah,”
murmured
Zuleika,
with
a
smile
of
understanding.
A
shadow
crossed
her
face,
“Even
so,”
she
said,
with
some
pique,
“I
don’t
suppose
she
had
so
very
many
adorers.
She
never
went
out
into
the
world.”
“Tankerton,”
said
the
Duke
drily,
“is
a
large
house,
and
my
great-great-grandfather
was
the
most
hospitable
of
men.
However,”
he
added,
marvelling
that
she
had
again
missed
the
point
so
utterly,
“my
purpose
was
not
to
confront
you
with
a
past
rival
in
conquest,
but
to
set
at
rest
a
fear
which
I
had,
I
think,
roused
in
you
by
my
somewhat
full
description
of
the
high
majestic
life
to
which
you,
as
my
bride,
would
be
translated.”
“A
fear?
What
sort
of
a
fear?”
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