“Madam, the Augustus—Titus, has been. The Cæsar Domitian is proclaimed Emperor by the troops. The vigiles are hastening in cohorts to swear allegiance.”
“I congratulate you—I congratulate you with all my heart!” exclaimed Longa Duilia, throwing her arms round her daughter. “I have reached the summit of my ambition. I vow a kid to Febronia for her opportune—ahem!—but who would have thought the Roman fever would have been so speedy in bringing us luck. Run, Eboracus, summon the housekeeper; order the ancestral masks to be exposed, all the boxes opened, dust the noses with the feather brush; let the lares be garlanded. Tell Paulina to bring out the best incense, not the cheapest this time, and I vow I will throw a double pinch on the altar of the household gods. Who would have thought it! I—I, mother to an empress. I would dance on the house-top, but that my wig is not properly pinned, and might come off. I must, I positively must embrace you again, Domitia; and you too, Cornelia, I am so happy!—As the Gods love me! Wig pinned or not, I must dance.”
“Let us go down,” said Domitia in a hard tone.
“Come down, by all means,” acquiesced her mother. “I must see that the Gods be properly thanked. I stepped this morning out of bed left leg foremost.[9] I knew some happiness would come to me to-day. As the Gods love me! I’ll give a little supper. Domitia! whom shall I invite? None of your second-class men now. There!—I thought as much; my wig has come off. Never mind! no men can see me, and women don’t count.”
On reaching the private apartment of the lady, Domitia said:—
“Mother—a word.”
She was white, save that a flame was kindled on each cheek-bone and her eyes scintillated like burning coals.
“Well, my dear, I am all ears—even to my toes.”
“Mother, he murdered him. I know it—I feared there was mischief meant, when Domitian attended him to Cutiliæ and took Elymas with him. It was not fever that——”
