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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
99
To-night,
as
he,
a
doomed
man,
went
up
into
the
familiar
rooms,
he
was
wholly
glad
that
he
had
thus
relented.
As
yet,
he
was
spared
the
tragic
knowledge
that
it
would
make
no
difference.*
*
The
Junta
has
been
reconstituted.
But
the
apostolic
line
was
broken,
the
thread
was
snapped;
the
old
magic
is
fled.
The
MacQuern
and
two
other
young
men
were
already
there.
“Mr.
President,”
said
The
MacQuern,
“I
present
Mr.
Trent-Garby,
of
Christ
Church.”
“The
Junta
is
honoured,”
said
the
Duke,
bowing.
Such
was
the
ritual
of
the
club.
The
other
young
man,
because
his
host,
Sir
John
Marraby,
was
not
yet
on
the
scene,
had
no
locus
standi,
and,
though
a
friend
of
The
MacQuern,
and
well
known
to
the
Duke,
had
to
be
ignored.
A
moment
later,
Sir
John
arrived.
“Mr.
President,”
he
said,
“I
present
Lord
Sayes,
of
Magdalen.”
“The
Junta
is
honoured,”
said
the
Duke,
bowing.
Both
hosts
and
both
guests,
having
been
prominent
in
the
throng
that
vociferated
around
Zuleika
an
hour
earlier,
were
slightly
abashed
in
the
Duke’s
presence.
He,
however,
had
not
noticed
any
one
in
particular,
and,
even
if
he
had,
that
fine
tradition
of
the
club--“A
member
of
the
Junta
can
do
no
wrong;
a
guest
of
the
Junta
cannot
err”--would
have
prevented
him
from
showing
his
displeasure.
A
Herculean
figure
filled
the
doorway.
“The
Junta
is
honoured,”
said
the
Duke,
bowing
to
his
guest.
“Duke,”
said
the
newcomer
quietly,
“the
honour
is
as
much
mine
as
that
of
the
interesting
and
ancient
institution
which
I
am
this
night
privileged
to
inspect.”
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