Zuleika Dobson, or, an Oxford love story

by Max Beerbohm

"Once and for all: you cannot love me?" Slowly she shook her head. The black pearl and the pink, quivering, gave stress to her ultimatum. But the violet of her eyes was all but hidden by the dilation of her pupils. "Then," whispered the Duke, "when I shall have died, deeming life a vain thing without you, will the gods give you tears for me? Miss Dobson, will your soul awaken? When I shall have sunk for ever beneath these waters whose supposed purpose here this afternoon is but that they be ploughed by the blades of these young oarsmen, will there be struck from that flint, your heart, some late and momentary spark of pity for me?" "Why of course, of COURSE!" babbled Zuleika, with clasped hands and dazzling eyes. "But," she curbed herself, "it is—it would—oh, you mustn't THINK of it! I couldn't allow it! I—I should never forgive myself!" "In fact, you would mourn me always?" "Why yes!.. Y-es-always." What else could she say? But would his answer be that he dared not condemn her to lifelong torment? "Then," his answer was, "my joy in dying for you is made perfect."