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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
66
“Am
not
I
sufficiently
diverting?”
asked
the
Duke
bitterly.
“Quite
candidly,
no.
Have
you
any
friend
lodging
with
you
here?”
“One,
overhead.
A
man
named
Noaks.”
“A
small
man,
with
spectacles?”
“Very
small,
with
very
large
spectacles.”
“He
was
pointed
out
to
me
yesterday,
as
I
was
driving
from
the
Station
...
No,
I
don’t
think
I
want
to
meet
him.
What
can
you
have
in
common
with
him?”
“One
frailty,
at
least:
he,
too,
Miss
Dobson,
loves
you.”
“But
of
course
he
does.
He
saw
me
drive
past.
Very
few
of
the
others,”
she
said,
rising
and
shaking
herself,
“have
set
eyes
on
me.
Do
let
us
go
out
and
look
at
the
Colleges.
I
do
need
change
of
scene.
If
you
were
a
doctor,
you
would
have
prescribed
that
long
ago.
It
is
very
bad
for
me
to
be
here,
a
kind
of
Cinderella,
moping
over
the
ashes
of
my
love
for
you.
Where
is
your
hat?”
Looking
round,
she
caught
sight
of
herself
in
the
glass.
“Oh,”
she
cried,
“what
a
fright
I
do
look!
I
must
never
be
seen
like
this!”
“You
look
very
beautiful.”
“I
don’t.
That
is
a
lover’s
illusion.
You
yourself
told
me
that
this
tartan
was
perfectly
hideous.
There
was
no
need
to
tell
me
that.
I
came
thus
because
I
was
coming
to
see
you.
I
chose
this
frock
in
the
deliberate
fear
that
you,
if
I
made
myself
presentable,
might
succumb
at
second
sight
of
me.
I
would
have
sent
out
for
a
sack
and
dressed
myself
in
that,
I
would
have
blacked
my
face
all
over
with
burnt
cork,
only
I
was
afraid
of
being
mobbed
on
the
way
to
you.”
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