MELISANDE. For years and years--and wherever they go, people make silly little jokes about them, and cough very loudly if they go into a room where the two of them are. And then they get married at last, and everybody comes and watches them get married, and makes more silly jokes, and they go away for what they call a honeymoon, and they tell everybody--they shout it out in the newspapers--_where_ they are going for their honeymoon; and then they come back and start talking about bread-sauce. Oh, Jane, it's horrible.
JANE. Horrible, darling. (With a French air) But what would you?
MELISANDE (in a low thrilling voice). What would I? Ah, what would I, Jane?
JANE. Because you see, Sandy--I mean Melisande--you see, darling, this _is_ the twentieth century, and--
MELISANDE. Sometimes I see him clothed in mail, riding beneath my lattice window.
All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewelled shone the saddle leather, The helmet and the helmet feather Burned like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot.
And from his blazoned baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung As he rode down to Camelot.
JANE. I know, dear. But of course they _don't_ nowadays.
MELISANDE. And as he rides beneath my room, singing to himself, I wave one lily hand to him from my lattice, and toss him down a gage, a gage for him to wear in his helm, a rose--perhaps just a rose.
JANE (awed). No, Melisande, would you really? Wave a lily hand to him? (She waves one) I mean, wouldn't it be rather--_you_ know. Rather forward.
JANE (upset). Well, I mean--Well, of course, I suppose it was different in those days.
MELISANDE. How else could he know that I loved him? How else could he wear my gage in his helm when he rode to battle?
MELISANDE. And then when he has slain his enemies in battle, he comes back to me. I knot my sheets together so as to form a rope--for I have been immured in my room--and I let myself down to him. He places me on the saddle in front of him, and we ride forth together into the world--together for always!
JANE (a little uncomfortably). You do get _married_, I suppose, darling, or do you--er--
MELISANDE. We stop at a little hermitage on the way, and a good priest marries us.