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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
74
“Stay!”
said
the
Duke.
“Let
me,
in
justice
to
myself,
correct
an
inference
you
may
have
drawn.
It
is
not
by
reason
of
any
defect
in
myself,
perceived
or
imagined,
that
Miss
Dobson
scorns
me.
She
scorns
me
simply
because
I
love
her.
All
who
love
her
she
scorns.
To
see
her
is
to
love
her.
Therefore
shut
your
eyes
to
her.
Strictly
exclude
her
from
your
horizon.
Ignore
her.
Will
you
do
this?”
“We
will
try,”
said
the
one,
after
a
pause.
“Thank
you
very
much,”
added
the
other.
The
Duke
watched
them
out
of
sight.
He
wished
he
could
take
the
good
advice
he
had
given
them...
Suppose
he
did
take
it!
Suppose
he
went
to
the
Bursar,
obtained
an
exeat,
fled
straight
to
London!
What
just
humiliation
for
Zuleika
to
come
down
and
find
her
captive
gone!
He
pictured
her
staring
around
the
quadrangle,
ranging
the
cloisters,
calling
to
him.
He
pictured
her
rustling
to
the
gate
of
the
College,
inquiring
at
the
porter’s
lodge.
“His
Grace,
Miss,
he
passed
through
a
minute
ago.
He’s
going
down
this
afternoon.”
Yet,
even
while
his
fancy
luxuriated
in
this
scheme,
he
well
knew
that
he
would
not
accomplish
anything
of
the
kind--knew
well
that
he
would
wait
here
humbly,
eagerly,
even
though
Zuleika
lingered
over
her
toilet
till
crack
o’
doom.
He
had
no
desire
that
was
not
centred
in
her.
Take
away
his
love
for
her,
and
what
remained?
Nothing--though
only
in
the
past
twenty-four
hours
had
this
love
been
added
to
him.
Ah,
why
had
he
ever
seen
her?
He
thought
of
his
past,
its
cold
splendour
and
insouciance.
But
he
knew
that
for
him
there
was
no
returning.
His
boats
were
burnt.
The
Cytherean
babes
had
set
their
torches
to
that
flotilla,
and
it
had
blazed
like
match-wood.
On
the
isle
of
the
enchantress
he
was
stranded
for
ever.
For
ever
stranded
on
the
isle
of
an
enchantress
who
would
have
nothing
to
do
with
him!
What,
he
wondered,
should
be
done
in
so
piteous
a
quandary?
There
seemed
to
be
two
courses.
One
was
to
pine
slowly
and
painfully
away.
The
other...
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