"Well, little darling, what sort of a fashion is that?"
"Nevertheless it is after a good old French mode. It's by Ronsard," said Pierre:
". . . else I would only claim
A century hence, sans glory and sans fame
Slothful to die upon thy lap, Cassandra. . . ."
"A hundred years!" sighed Luce. "He doesn't ask much! . . ."
"Or I mistake, or more delights are heaped
In death like that than all the honors reaped
By Caesar great or firebolt Alexander."
"Naughty, naughty, naughty little scamp! have you no shame? In this epoch of heroes!"
"There are too many," said Pierre. "I would rather be a little fellow who loves, a babe of a man."
"The babe of a woman who still has on his lips the milk from my breast," cried Luce, seizing him round the neck. "My babe, my own!"