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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
7
Insomuch
that
ere
the
loud
chapel-clock
tolled
another
hour
all
the
trunks
had
been
sent
empty
away.
The
carpet
was
unflecked
by
any
scrap
of
silver-paper.
From
the
mantelpiece,
photographs
of
Zuleika
surveyed
the
room
with
a
possessive
air.
Zuleika’s
pincushion,
a-bristle
with
new
pins,
lay
on
the
dimity-flounced
toilet-table,
and
round
it
stood
a
multitude
of
multiform
glass
vessels,
domed,
all
of
them,
with
dull
gold,
on
which
Z.
D.,
in
zianites
and
diamonds,
was
encrusted.
On
a
small
table
stood
a
great
casket
of
malachite,
initialled
in
like
fashion.
On
another
small
table
stood
Zuleika’s
library.
Both
books
were
in
covers
of
dull
gold.
On
the
back
of
one
cover
BRADSHAW,
in
beryls,
was
encrusted;
on
the
back
of
the
other,
A.B.C.
GUIDE,
in
amethysts,
beryls,
chrysoprases,
and
garnets.
And
Zuleika’s
great
cheval-glass
stood
ready
to
reflect
her.
Always
it
travelled
with
her,
in
a
great
case
specially
made
for
it.
It
was
framed
in
ivory,
and
of
fluted
ivory
were
the
slim
columns
it
swung
between.
Of
gold
were
its
twin
sconces,
and
four
tall
tapers
stood
in
each
of
them.
The
door
opened,
and
the
Warden,
with
hospitable
words,
left
his
grand-daughter
at
the
threshold.
Zuleika
wandered
to
her
mirror.
“Undress
me,
Melisande,”
she
said.
Like
all
who
are
wont
to
appear
by
night
before
the
public,
she
had
the
habit
of
resting
towards
sunset.
Presently
Melisande
withdrew.
Her
mistress,
in
a
white
peignoir
tied
with
a
blue
sash,
lay
in
a
great
chintz
chair,
gazing
out
of
the
bay-window.
The
quadrangle
below
was
very
beautiful,
with
its
walls
of
rugged
grey,
its
cloisters,
its
grass
carpet.
But
to
her
it
was
of
no
more
interest
than
if
it
had
been
the
rattling
court-yard
to
one
of
those
hotels
in
which
she
spent
her
life.
She
saw
it,
but
heeded
it
not.
She
seemed
to
be
thinking
of
herself,
or
of
something
she
desired,
or
of
some
one
she
had
never
met.
There
was
ennui,
and
there
was
wistfulness,
in
her
gaze.
Yet
one
would
have
guessed
these
things
to
be
transient--to
be
no
more
than
the
little
shadows
that
sometimes
pass
between
a
bright
mirror
and
the
brightness
it
reflects.
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