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That old French poet understood in half a second more than your Hague tribunal could comprehend in its first Cathayan cycle! There lies the hope of your millennium in the higher education of the modern Phyllis." "And the up-to-date Sylvandre," added Selwyn. "He knows too much already," she retorted, delicate nose in the air. . . . "Hark! Ear to the ground!
Listen then and be ashamed." And lying there, the back of one hand above her eyes, she sang in a sweet, childish, mocking voice, tremulous with hidden laughter, the song of Phyllis the shepherdess and Sylvandre the shepherd how Phyllis, more avaricious than sentimental, made Sylvandre pay her thirty sheep for one kiss; how, next day, the price shifted to one sheep for thirty kisses; and then the dreadful demoralisation of Phyllis: "Le lendemain, Philis, plus tendre Fut trop heureuse de lui rendre Trente moutons pour un baiser!
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