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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
71
There
he
fought
calmly,
ferociously,
till
a
bullet
went
through
his
chest.
“By
God,
this
College
is
well-named!”
were
the
words
he
uttered
as
he
fell
forward
and
died.
Comparatively
tame
was
the
scene
now
being
enacted
in
this
place.
The
Duke,
with
bowed
head,
was
pacing
the
path
between
the
lawn
and
the
cloisters.
Two
other
undergraduates
stood
watching
him,
whispering
to
each
other,
under
the
archway
that
leads
to
the
Front
Quadrangle.
Presently,
in
a
sheepish
way,
they
approached
him.
He
halted
and
looked
up.
“I
say,”
stammered
the
spokesman.
“Well?”
asked
the
Duke.
Both
youths
were
slightly
acquainted
with
him;
but
he
was
not
used
to
being
spoken
to
by
those
whom
he
had
not
first
addressed.
Moreover,
he
was
loth
to
be
thus
disturbed
in
his
sombre
reverie.
His
manner
was
not
encouraging.
“Isn’t
it
a
lovely
day
for
the
Eights?”
faltered
the
spokesman.
“I
conceive,”
the
Duke
said,
“that
you
hold
back
some
other
question.”
The
spokesman
smiled
weakly.
Nudged
by
the
other,
he
muttered
“Ask
him
yourself!”
The
Duke
diverted
his
gaze
to
the
other,
who,
with
an
angry
look
at
the
one,
cleared
his
throat,
and
said
“I
was
going
to
ask
if
you
thought
Miss
Dobson
would
come
and
have
luncheon
with
me
to-morrow?”
“A
sister
of
mine
will
be
there,”
explained
the
one,
knowing
the
Duke
to
be
a
precisian.
“If
you
are
acquainted
with
Miss
Dobson,
a
direct
invitation
should
be
sent
to
her,”
said
the
Duke.
“If
you
are
not--”
The
aposiopesis
was
icy.
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