“Come, if a cousin, as your mother asserts,—though by the Gods! I know not where the kinship comes in,—wish me well. Such words as yours are of ill-omen.”
“I wish confusion and destruction to the worst enemies of Rome,” answered Domitia.
“That suffices. I will offer the spoils to you.”
“Thank you, I do not yet wear wigs.”
He turned away with an expression of irritation.
“You are either silent, or stick pins into me,” he muttered.
Domitia continued her course, but as she entered the “Island” in which was the home of Paris, she observed the young Cæsar still in the street, at a corner watching her.
Much annoyed, and with her temper ruffled by this meeting, she ascended the steps to the first story and at once turned towards the apartments of Paris and Glyceria, but had to thread her way among poor people, women weaving and spinning, and children romping and running races.
She was welcomed with pleasure, Glyceria would have raised herself, had she been able; as it was, she could show her respect only by a salutation with the hand, and her pleasure by a smile and a word.
The chamber was fragrant with violets.