“There are many points in calling an infant one’s little cabbage,” I admitted, “but soon he’ll grow up to be as old as I am, and—” I sighed, “who would call me their petit chow?”
Carlotta laughed.
“That is true. We shall have to find a name.” She reflected for a few moments; then put her arms round my neck and continued her reflections.
“He shall be Marcus—another Marcus Ordeyne. Then perhaps some day he will be ‘Seer Marcous’ like you.”
“Do you mean when I die?” I asked.
“Oh, not for years and years and years!” she cried, tightening her clasp in alarm. “But the child lives longer than the father. It is fate. He will live longer than I.”
“Let us hope so, dear,” I answered. “But it is just because I am not his father that he can’t be Sir Marcus when I die. He can have my name; but my title—”
“Who will have it?”
“No one.”
“It will die too?”