Cornelia frowned, but did as she was requested; her pallid face colored scarlet; such a question seemed to her vulgar and trivial, and she felt that shock to her taste which jars on a superior nature, when the details of daily life intrude on a moment of exalted feeling. Those roses from Paestum,[232] that thought of Quintus! what a delicious flood of happy feeling they symbolized! And Chloe’s appearance, in the very midst of this beauty and happiness, wounded her like the empty farcicality of an Atellanian buffoon.[233]
Aurelius and Claudia were left to gaze at the display of birthday gifts with redoubled attention; you might have fancied they had never before seen such things as flowers or bracelets.
“How delicious!” said Claudia breathing the perfume of a splendid rose-bush.
“Delicious!” echoed Aurelius, putting his face close to the flowers. “And look at this strange bird! How naturally it sits with its wings spread out—exactly as if it were alive.”
“It is a parrot from the banks of the Indus.”
“Or a phoenix[234]....”
“A phoenix? I thought that story of Tacitus’ was a mere fable.”
“Nay, not altogether. The marvellous bird, which burns its father or itself and then rises from its ashes in renewed youth, is no doubt a myth. But does not Pliny tell us of a real phoenix, which builds its nest at the sources of the Nile and shines like pure gold?”
“What, seriously?” and she gently stroked the neck of the stuffed bird with her finger.
“How soft it feels!” she said.