Making no attempt at a defence which he knew would be futile, he said:
"The poor woman!" and went out to join his escort, whose horses were pawing with impatience under the palace windows.
With that acute faculty, peculiar to people of passionate temperament, for making themselves miserable when a desire is not immediately fulfilled, Cleopatra imagined Antony as deceptive, evasive, ready to betray her for the second time. The very exclamation that he had uttered on leaving her—"the poor woman!"—rang in her ears and increased her anger. What tender pity he had put into the words! How plainly he had implied that she was innocent of any offence! Did he still love her? After all, it was quite possible that this intriguing woman had retained her influence over his weak heart. At all events they were still good friends, and that alone was a torment to the woman who, for her own advantage, would have been willing to destroy the world. She would have no peace until Octavia went away, and she resolved to secure her banishment that very day.
In the evening, when the Imperator returned, with the confident air of a man who, having satisfactorily accomplished his day's work, expects a certain reward, he had the disagreeable surprise of a cold welcome. Cleopatra had decided to smile upon him only on condition that he would carry out her wishes at once. She began:
"You are sacrificing our happiness for the sake of a woman who no longer means anything to you!"
"She is certainly nothing to me that can distress you, since I love only you!"
"But you are still good friends!"
He had gone over the same subject so often, defending himself and pointing out the motives for his attitude, that the futility of further words was clear to him.
"How you do hate her!" he exclaimed, in a tone which implied, "How unjust you are!"
This reproach was the last touch. Cleopatra was exasperated, and in a fury, demanded: