Zuleika Dobson, or, an Oxford love story

by Max Beerbohm

He wished he had had more than three glasses from the crusted bottle which she was putting away into the chiffonier. Down, doubt! Down, sense of disparity! The moment was at hand. Would he let it slip? Now she was folding up the table-cloth, now she was going. "Stay!" he uttered. "I have something to say to you." The girl turned to him. He forced his eyes to meet hers. "I understand," he said in a constrained voice, "that you regard me with sentiments of something more than esteem.—Is this so?" The girl had stepped quickly back, and her face was scarlet. "Nay," he said, having to go through with it now, "there is no cause for embarrassment. And I am sure you will acquit me of wanton curiosity. Is it a fact that you—love me?" She tried to speak, could not. But she nodded her head. The Duke, much relieved, came nearer to her. "What is your name?" he asked gently. "Katie," she was able to gasp. "Well, Katie, how long have you loved me?" "Ever since," she faltered, "ever since you came to engage the rooms." "You are not, of course, given to idolising any tenant of your mother's?" "No." "May I boast myself the first possessor of your heart?" "Yes." She had become very pale now, and was trembling painfully. "And