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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
9
It
may
be
that
she
still
resented
his
indifference
to
those
early
struggles
which,
even
now,
she
shuddered
to
recall.
For
a
governess’
life
she
had
been,
indeed,
notably
unfit.
Hard
she
had
thought
it,
that
penury
should
force
her
back
into
the
school-room
she
was
scarce
out
of,
there
to
champion
the
sums
and
maps
and
conjugations
she
had
never
tried
to
master.
Hating
her
work,
she
had
failed
signally
to
pick
up
any
learning
from
her
little
pupils,
and
had
been
driven
from
house
to
house,
a
sullen
and
most
ineffectual
maiden.
The
sequence
of
her
situations
was
the
swifter
by
reason
of
her
pretty
face.
Was
there
a
grown-up
son,
always
he
fell
in
love
with
her,
and
she
would
let
his
eyes
trifle
boldly
with
hers
across
the
dinner-table.
When
he
offered
her
his
hand,
she
would
refuse
it--not
because
she
“knew
her
place,”
but
because
she
did
not
love
him.
Even
had
she
been
a
good
teacher,
her
presence
could
not
have
been
tolerated
thereafter.
Her
corded
trunk,
heavier
by
another
packet
of
billets-doux
and
a
month’s
salary
in
advance,
was
soon
carried
up
the
stairs
of
some
other
house.
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