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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
85
“You
looked,
I
am
bound
to
say,
nobler,
more
spiritual.”
“More
spiritual?”
she
exclaimed.
“Do
you
mean
I
looked
tired
or
ill?”
“No,
you
seemed
quite
fresh.
But
then,
you
are
singular.
You
are
no
criterion.”
“You
mean
you
can’t
judge
those
two
young
men
by
me?
Well,
I
am
only
a
woman,
of
course.
I
have
heard
of
women,
no
longer
young,
wasting
away
because
no
man
loved
them.
I
have
often
heard
of
a
young
woman
fretting
because
some
particular
young
man
didn’t
love
her.
But
I
never
heard
of
her
wasting
away.
Certainly
a
young
man
doesn’t
waste
away
for
love
of
some
particular
young
woman.
He
very
soon
makes
love
to
some
other
one.
If
his
be
an
ardent
nature,
the
quicker
his
transition.
All
the
most
ardent
of
my
past
adorers
have
married.
Will
you
put
my
cup
down,
please?”
“Past?”
echoed
the
Duke,
as
he
placed
her
cup
on
the
floor.
“Have
any
of
your
lovers
ceased
to
love
you?”
“Ah
no,
no;
not
in
retrospect.
I
remain
their
ideal,
and
all
that,
of
course.
They
cherish
the
thought
of
me.
They
see
the
world
in
terms
of
me.
But
I
am
an
inspiration,
not
an
obsession;
a
glow,
not
a
blight.”
“You
don’t
believe
in
the
love
that
corrodes,
the
love
that
ruins?”
“No,”
laughed
Zuleika.
“You
have
never
dipped
into
the
Greek
pastoral
poets,
nor
sampled
the
Elizabethan
sonneteers?”
“No,
never.
You
will
think
me
lamentably
crude:
my
experience
of
life
has
been
drawn
from
life
itself.”
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