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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
72
“Well,
you
see,”
said
the
other
of
the
two,
“that
is
just
the
difficulty.
I
AM
acquainted
with
her.
But
is
she
acquainted
with
ME?
I
met
her
at
breakfast
this
morning,
at
the
Warden’s.”
“So
did
I,”
added
the
one.
“But
she--well,”
continued
the
other,
“she
didn’t
take
much
notice
of
us.
She
seemed
to
be
in
a
sort
of
dream.”
“Ah!”
murmured
the
Duke,
with
melancholy
interest.
“The
only
time
she
opened
her
lips,”
said
the
other,
“was
when
she
asked
us
whether
we
took
tea
or
coffee.”
“She
put
hot
milk
in
my
tea,”
volunteered
the
one,
“and
upset
the
cup
over
my
hand,
and
smiled
vaguely.”
“And
smiled
vaguely,”
sighed
the
Duke.
“She
left
us
long
before
the
marmalade
stage,”
said
the
one.
“Without
a
word,”
said
the
other.
“Without
a
glance?”
asked
the
Duke.
It
was
testified
by
the
one
and
the
other
that
there
had
been
not
so
much
as
a
glance.
“Doubtless,”
the
disingenuous
Duke
said,
“she
had
a
headache...
Was
she
pale?”
“Very
pale,”
answered
the
one.
“A
healthy
pallor,”
qualified
the
other,
who
was
a
constant
reader
of
novels.
“Did
she
look,”
the
Duke
inquired,
“as
if
she
had
spent
a
sleepless
night?”
That
was
the
impression
made
on
both.
“Yet
she
did
not
seem
listless
or
unhappy?”
No,
they
would
not
go
so
far
as
to
say
that.
“Indeed,
were
her
eyes
of
an
almost
unnatural
brilliance?”
“Quite
unnatural,”
confessed
the
one.
“Twin
stars,”
interpolated
the
other.
“Did
she,
in
fact,
seem
to
be
consumed
by
some
inward
rapture?”
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