Quintus had meanwhile conquered his annoyance at the delay he had been compelled to brook, and offered his father his hand with an affectionate gesture; but Titus Claudius took no notice of his son’s advances.
“You are unusually early,” he observed in icy tones, “or perhaps you are but just returning from some cheerful entertainment—so-called.”
“That is the case,” replied Quintus coolly. “I have been at the house of Lucius Norbanus, the prefect of the body-guard. The noble Aurelius was also there,” he added with an ironical smile. “Our excellent friend Aurelius.”
“Do you think to excuse yourself by casting reflections on another? If Aurelius shares your dissipation once or twice a month, I have no objections to raise—I have no wish to deny the right of youth to its pleasures. But you, my son, have made a rule of what ought to be the exception. Since your return from Baiae, you have led a life which is a disgrace alike to yourself and to me.”
Quintus looked at the floor. His respect and his defiant temper were evidently fighting a hard battle.
“You paint it too black, father,” he said at last, in a trembling voice. “I enjoy my life—perhaps too wildly; but I do nothing that can disgrace you or myself. Your words are too hard, father.”
“Well then, I will allow that much; but you, on your part, must allow that the son of the high-priest is to be measured by another standard than the other youths of your own rank.”
“It might be so, if I lived under the same roof with you. But since I am independent and master of my own fortune....”
“Aye, and that is your misfortune,” the priest interrupted. “Enough, you know my opinion. However, that which caused me to require your presence here to-day, was not your course of life in general. A particular instance of incredible folly has come to my ears; you are playing a wicked and dangerous game, and I sent for you to warn you.”
“Indeed, father, you excite my curiosity.”