"Then let it," said the other, brutally; "I must have some plain words with you." And he pointed toward the door. The two serving-maids took the hint, and retired.
Claudia settled her head back on the pillows, and folded her hands as if to resign herself to a very dull tête-à-tête.
"Have you any new debts?" demanded Lentulus.
"What a tiresome question," murmured the lady. "No—no—yes; I owe Pomponius the fancier—I don't quite know how much—for my last Maltese lap dog."
"Thank the gods that is all," went on her brother-in-law. "Now listen to me. I have been living beyond my means. Last year the canvass to get on the board of guardians of the Sibylline Books—in which that graceless son-in-law of Cicero's, Publius Dolabella, defeated me—cost a deal of money. This year I have the consulship. But it has taken every denarius I own, and more too. All my estates are involved, so that it will require years to redeem them, in the ordinary way."
"How extremely unfortunate!" sighed Claudia, looking dreadfully bored.
"If that was all I had to tell you," snapped back Lentulus, "I would not have disturbed your ladyship's repose. But you must be so indulgent as to listen."
"Well?" said Claudia, yawning again and settling herself.
"Your late husband left some little property," began the other.
"Yes, to be sure; oh! my poor Caius!" and Claudia began to sob and wipe away the tears.