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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
77
“I
am
forgiven?”
he
asked.
In
her,
I
am
afraid,
self-respect
outweighed
charity.
“I
will
try,”
she
said
merely,
“to
forget
what
you
have
done.”
Motioning
him
to
her
side,
she
opened
her
parasol,
and
signified
her
readiness
to
start.
They
passed
together
across
the
vast
gravelled
expanse
of
the
Front
Quadrangle.
In
the
porch
of
the
College
there
were,
as
usual,
some
chained-up
dogs,
patiently
awaiting
their
masters.
Zuleika,
of
course,
did
not
care
for
dogs.
One
has
never
known
a
good
man
to
whom
dogs
were
not
dear;
but
many
of
the
best
women
have
no
such
fondness.
You
will
find
that
the
woman
who
is
really
kind
to
dogs
is
always
one
who
has
failed
to
inspire
sympathy
in
men.
For
the
attractive
woman,
dogs
are
mere
dumb
and
restless
brutes--possibly
dangerous,
certainly
soulless.
Yet
will
coquetry
teach
her
to
caress
any
dog
in
the
presence
of
a
man
enslaved
by
her.
Even
Zuleika,
it
seems,
was
not
above
this
rather
obvious
device
for
awaking
envy.
Be
sure
she
did
not
at
all
like
the
look
of
the
very
big
bulldog
who
was
squatting
outside
the
porter’s
lodge.
Perhaps,
but
for
her
present
anger,
she
would
not
have
stooped
endearingly
down
to
him,
as
she
did,
cooing
over
him
and
trying
to
pat
his
head.
Alas,
her
pretty
act
was
a
failure.
The
bulldog
cowered
away
from
her,
horrifically
grimacing.
This
was
strange.
Like
the
majority
of
his
breed,
Corker
(for
such
was
his
name)
had
ever
been
wistful
to
be
noticed
by
any
one--effusively
grateful
for
every
word
or
pat,
an
ever-ready
wagger
and
nuzzler,
to
none
ineffable.
No
beggar,
no
burglar,
had
ever
been
rebuffed
by
this
catholic
beast.
But
he
drew
the
line
at
Zuleika.
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