Elymas stood back and assumed a deferential attitude. Titus waved him to withdraw, and was obeyed. Then he took Domitia by the hand.
“A philosopher, are you?”
“No, I ask questions, but get no answers that content me.”
“Ah! you asked a favor of me the other day and spiced it with a sneer—your jibes hit me.”
“I meant not to give pain.”
“I have come to you touching this very matter. I am not sure, child, that the scandal is not greater so long as you and Domitian remain linked together, and pulling opposite ways, than if you were parted. Your quarrels are now the talk of Rome, and many a cutting jest is put into your pretty mouth at our expense; invented by others, attributed to you.”
“You will have us divorced!” her breath came quick and short.
“Listen to what I propose. Domitia, I am not well. I have this accursed Roman fever on me.”
“Sire, I mark suffering in your face.”
“It has been vexing me for some days, and it is my intent to leave Rome and be free from business and take my cure at Cutiliæ—our old estate in the Sabine country. Perhaps the air, the waters of the old home, the nest of our divine family—” his mouth twitched, but there was a sad expression in his face—“they may do me good. It is something, Domitia, to stand on the soil that was turned by one’s forbears, when they bent as humble farmers over the plough. They were honest men and happy; and when one is down at heart, there is naught like home—the old home where are the bones of one’s ancestors, though they may have been yeomen, and one a commissioner, and another an usurer, and so on. They were honest men. Aye! the rate-collector, he was an honest man. Here all is false, and unreal, and—Domitia—I feel that I want to stand on the soil where my worthy, humble, dear old people worked and worshipped, and laid them down to die.”