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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
76
He
flung
back
his
head,
spread
wide
his
arms,
quickened
his
pace
almost
to
running
speed.
Ah,
he
would
win
his
bride
before
the
setting
of
the
sun.
He
knew
not
by
what
means
he
would
win
her.
Enough
that
even
now,
full-hearted,
fleet-footed,
he
was
on
his
way
to
her,
and
that
she
heard
him
coming.
When
Zuleika,
a
vision
in
vaporous
white,
came
out
through
the
postern,
she
wondered
why
he
was
walking
at
so
remarkable
a
pace.
To
him,
wildly
expressing
in
his
movement
the
thought
within
him,
she
appeared
as
his
awful
bride.
With
a
cry
of
joy,
he
bounded
towards
her,
and
would
have
caught
her
in
his
arms,
had
she
not
stepped
nimbly
aside.
“Forgive
me!”
he
said,
after
a
pause.
“It
was
a
mistake--an
idiotic
mistake
of
identity.
I
thought
you
were...”
Zuleika,
rigid,
asked
“Have
I
many
doubles?”
“You
know
well
that
in
all
the
world
is
none
so
blest
as
to
be
like
you.
I
can
only
say
that
I
was
over-wrought.
I
can
only
say
that
it
shall
not
occur
again.”
She
was
very
angry
indeed.
Of
his
penitence
there
could
be
no
doubt.
But
there
are
outrages
for
which
no
penitence
can
atone.
This
seemed
to
be
one
of
them.
Her
first
impulse
was
to
dismiss
the
Duke
forthwith
and
for
ever.
But
she
wanted
to
show
herself
at
the
races.
And
she
could
not
go
alone.
And
except
the
Duke
there
was
no
one
to
take
her.
True,
there
was
the
concert
to-night;
and
she
could
show
herself
there
to
advantage;
but
she
wanted
ALL
Oxford
to
see
her--see
her
NOW.
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