At length, the irksomeness caused by Domitia’s irresponsive manner seemed to satisfy the mother that she did more harm than good in enforcing her attendance, and she ceased to require the girl to appear.
Some months passed, and Domitia had not given a thought to Glyceria, and her offer to revisit the sick woman, when, all at once, in a fit of weariness with all things that surrounded her, and a sense of incapacity to find enjoyment anywhere, she started from her languor to bid Eboracus go forth, buy honey-cakes and toys, and accompany her on a visit to the Suburra.
As she was on her way, Domitian came by with his lictors and other attendants. Since his elevation from poverty and insignificance to ease and importance, he had acquired a swagger that made his manner more offensive than before in his phase of cubbishness.
He at once addressed her, for though veiled he recognized her.
“May I attend you? I have at the moment nothing of importance to occupy me.”
“I am bound for the Suburra.”
“For the Suburra! What can take you into the slums of Rome?”
“I am going to see the wife of Paris, the tragic actor.”
“Oh! the wife of the actor, Paris,” with a sneer.
“I said so—the wife of Paris the actor,” she withdrew her veil and looked him straight in the eyes. He winced.