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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
65
The
Duke
displayed
them
in
the
hollow
of
his
hand.
She
touched
them
lightly,
reverently,
as
a
tourist
touches
a
sacred
relic
in
a
church.
At
length,
“Do
give
me
them,”
she
said.
“I
will
keep
them
in
a
little
secret
partition
of
my
jewel-case.”
The
Duke
had
closed
his
fist.
“Do!”
she
pleaded.
“My
other
jewels--they
have
no
separate
meanings
for
me.
I
never
remember
who
gave
me
this
one
or
that.
These
would
be
quite
different.
I
should
always
remember
their
history...
Do!”
“Ask
me
for
anything
else,”
said
the
Duke.
“These
are
the
one
thing
I
could
not
part
with--even
to
you,
for
whose
sake
they
are
hallowed.”
Zuleika
pouted.
On
the
verge
of
persisting,
she
changed
her
mind,
and
was
silent.
“Well!”
she
said
abruptly,
“how
about
these
races?
Are
you
going
to
take
me
to
see
them?”
“Races?
What
races?”
murmured
the
Duke.
“Oh
yes.
I
had
forgotten.
Do
you
really
mean
that
you
want
to
see
them?”
“Why,
of
course!
They
are
great
fun,
aren’t
they?”
“And
you
are
in
a
mood
for
great
fun?
Well,
there
is
plenty
of
time.
The
Second
Division
is
not
rowed
till
half-past
four.”
“The
Second
Division?
Why
not
take
me
to
the
First?”
“That
is
not
rowed
till
six.”
“Isn’t
this
rather
an
odd
arrangement?”
“No
doubt.
But
Oxford
never
pretended
to
be
strong
in
mathematics.”
“Why,
it’s
not
yet
three!”
cried
Zuleika,
with
a
woebegone
stare
at
the
clock.
“What
is
to
be
done
in
the
meantime?”
Marker
Marker
Fine marker
White-out
Fine white-out
Circle
Paint
Unmarker
Hand
Scalpel
Dice
Sieve
Purify
Undo
Redo
Start over
