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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
64
“Hush,”
said
the
Duke,
“hush!
You
are
over-excited.
There
will
be
a
crowd
under
my
window.
There,
there!
I
am
sorry.
I
thought--”
“Oh,
I
know
what
you
thought,”
said
Zuleika,
in
a
quieter
tone.
“I
am
sure
you
meant
well.
I
am
sorry
I
lost
my
temper.
Only,
you
might
have
given
me
credit
for
meaning
what
I
said:
that
I
would
not
marry
you,
because
I
did
not
love
you.
I
daresay
there
would
be
great
advantages
in
being
your
Duchess.
But
the
fact
is,
I
have
no
worldly
wisdom.
To
me,
marriage
is
a
sacrament.
I
could
no
more
marry
a
man
about
whom
I
could
not
make
a
fool
of
myself
than
I
could
marry
one
who
made
a
fool
of
himself
about
me.
Else
had
I
long
ceased
to
be
a
spinster.
Oh
my
friend,
do
not
imagine
that
I
have
not
rejected,
in
my
day,
a
score
of
suitors
quite
as
eligible
as
you.”
“As
eligible?
Who
were
they?”
frowned
the
Duke.
“Oh,
Archduke
this,
and
Grand
Duke
that,
and
His
Serene
Highness
the
other.
I
have
a
wretched
memory
for
names.”
“And
my
name,
too,
will
soon
escape
you,
perhaps?”
“No.
Oh,
no.
I
shall
always
remember
yours.
You
see,
I
was
in
love
with
you.
You
deceived
me
into
loving
you...”
She
sighed.
“Oh,
had
you
but
been
as
strong
as
I
thought
you...
Still,
a
swain
the
more.
That
is
something.”
She
leaned
forward,
smiling
archly.
“Those
studs--show
me
them
again.”
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