“For push, my dear, push to the purple. Your dear father, ah, well! We are not all made of the same clay.”
“Mother, that is precisely what fills me with dread. He will then be the eighth, for these adventurers of a few months do not count,—the new Nero.”
“But consider—the purple. My dear, do you remember how Valeria caught the dictator Sulla. She sat behind him in the theatre, and picked some flue off his toga. He turned round and caught her doing it. ‘Sir,’ said she, ‘I am but endeavoring to get to myself some of the luck that adheres to you!’ I could have loved that woman. It was so happy, so neat. That bit of wool drew Sulla and the Dictatorship to her. You, what a blunderer you are. You have offended Domitian, who may some day be greater than was Sulla, when you had it in your power by a word, a look, a dimpled smile, to win him, and with him the purple.”
“Mother, I do not covet it. You forget—I am promised to Lucius Ælius Lamia.”
“Oh! Lamia! He could be bought off with a proconsulship.”
“I do not desire to be separated from him. I love him, and have loved him since we were children together.”
“Well, you have done for your chances. If I surmise aright, the young man entertains a great grudge against you.”
At that moment Eboracus came in.
“Madam,” said he, “the Illyrian legions have entered the city, under Primus, and there is fighting in the streets. The people on the housetops cheer on this side or that, as though they were at a show of gladiators.”
“Well—those things happen. We shall know for certain which shall be uppermost, and if fate favors Vitellius—Then, daughter, I shall not scruple to give the young man up.”