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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
87
And,
while
he
drank
in
the
radiance
of
her
beauty,
he
heard
her
chattering
on.
“So
you
see,”
she
was
saying,
“it
couldn’t
do
those
young
men
any
harm.
Suppose
unrequited
love
IS
anguish:
isn’t
the
discipline
wholesome?
Suppose
I
AM
a
sort
of
furnace:
shan’t
I
purge,
refine,
temper?
Those
two
boys
are
but
scorched
from
here.
That
is
horrid;
and
what
good
will
it
do
them?”
She
laid
a
hand
on
his
arm.
“Cast
them
into
the
furnace
for
their
own
sake,
dear
Duke!
Or
cast
one
of
them,
or,”
she
added,
glancing
round
at
the
throng,
“any
one
of
these
others!”
“For
their
own
sake?”
he
echoed,
withdrawing
his
arm.
“If
you
were
not,
as
the
whole
world
knows
you
to
be,
perfectly
respectable,
there
might
be
something
in
what
you
say.
But
as
it
is,
you
can
but
be
an
engine
for
mischief;
and
your
sophistries
leave
me
unmoved.
I
shall
certainly
keep
you
to
myself.”
“I
hate
you,”
said
Zuleika,
with
an
ugly
petulance
that
crowned
the
irony.
“So
long
as
I
live,”
uttered
the
Duke,
in
a
level
voice,
“you
will
address
no
man
but
me.”
“If
your
prophecy
is
to
be
fulfilled,”
laughed
Zuleika,
rising
from
her
chair,
“your
last
moment
is
at
hand.”
“It
is,”
he
answered,
rising
too.
“What
do
you
mean?”
she
asked,
awed
by
something
in
his
tone.
“I
mean
what
I
say:
that
my
last
moment
is
at
hand.”
He
withdrew
his
eyes
from
hers,
and,
leaning
his
elbows
on
the
balustrade,
gazed
thoughtfully
at
the
river.
“When
I
am
dead,”
he
added,
over
his
shoulder,
“you
will
find
these
fellows
rather
coy
of
your
advances.”
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