“My dear, good, little father,” said the criminal, “do not take a thoughtless speech so seriously; I cannot bear to hear you speak to me so ungraciously—and your eyes are not so kind and sweet as usual, and here on your forehead—just here—there is an ugly line that makes you look so much older....”
She threw her round, rosy arms round his neck, and stroked his cheek lovingly.
“Come, be kind again to your little girl—and I will declare that your long-nosed—oh! I forgot—your excellent friend, Sextus Furius, is delightful.” Titus Claudius gently released himself; he could not help smiling.
“It is impossible to scold you, you little imp,” he said shaking his head. “I am afraid I spoil you.”
And he once more glanced up at the blue sky, as though he grudged having to exchange the airy peristyle for the senate-house. Then, waving them a farewell, he went off to his own rooms.
“But he is a perfect horror, all the same,” Lucilia repeated, when her father was out of hearing. “I can tell you, Mother dear, I could not kiss him for a thousand millions, much less marry him! And is this long-nosed, weak-kneed creature to be the husband of our Claudia?”
“Silence, silly child,” said Octavia with affected severity. “Your father’s will is our law. He has his own reasons for whatever he decides on.”
“You are only making believe,” said Lucilia. “You know you like him no better than I do, and you, too, grieve over the odious fancy....”
“Lucilia!”
“Well ... is one to bite one’s tongue out simply from respect of persons? My father often has fancies. What should Claudia have to do with that wooden simpleton? And he is as cowardly as a whimpering woman! Cornelia told me so—she heard it from her uncle.”