“I don’t believe in the gods, Thrasyllus, not even in Bacchus,” said Catullus. “You know I don’t. Since the gods ordained that I should be born as poor as a rat and my nephew surrounded by every earthly treasure, since ... since I was a babe at the breast, I have not believed in the gods! And least of all in Venus ... though I could almost begin to believe in her when Cora sings to her as she has been doing.”
The Greek slave raised her head from the harp on which she was leaning:
“Did I sing well?” she asked. “Thrasyllus, did I sing well?”
“Very well indeed, Cora,” said Thrasyllus.
“Did he say anything about my song?”
“No,” said Thrasyllus, “he did not.”
“Has he never said anything about my singing?”
“No, Cora; he is suffering too much to take notice of it.”
“Poor Cora!” said Catullus. “She has been singing hymns to Aphrodite for three months now, ever since Ilia went away and since you, Thrasyllus, bought Cora for her beautiful voice, to divert Lucius a little; and I believe that Lucius has not even observed that Cora can sing ... much less realized that she exists!”
“It doesn’t matter,” said the Greek slave, leaning her head against the harp again.