“Be advised by me, you foolish child. When you come under a cherry tree you pluck all the ripe fruit; and what you cannot eat yourself you give to your friends. Do you not perceive that having been fortunate enough to catch the fancy of the young Cæsar, you can use this fancy and make large profit out of it? He is already very freely distributing offices to all his friends and such as most grossly flatter him. What may not you obtain for me! That is if I take a liking for any one and wish to marry him, you must positively obtain the proconsulship of Syria or Egypt for him. And as to Lamia, he can be choked off with a prætorship.”
The veil was plucked aside, and Domitian entered.
Longa Duilia rose; not so Domitia Longina.
He stood for a moment looking at the girl.
“Saucy still?” he said.
“Wrathful at this treatment,” she answered, with her eyes on the ground, and her hands clasped. “Because I would have denied to you a suppliant, the hospitality of our house, must I, unsoliciting it, be forced to accept yours?”
“Domitia, has your mother informed you what I have designed for you?”
“I should prefer that you concerned yourself with your prætorial duties.”
Domitian bit his lip. He had been invested with the office of prætor of the city, but in his overweening conceit deemed it unworthy of him to discharge the duties of the office.
“It is my intent, Domitia, to elevate you into the Flavian family.”