“I can rely on you alone,” replied Cornelia.  “You must arrange everything.  If you are untrue, be sure that it is not I who will in the end punish, but Master Drusus, whose memory is long.  You have more schemes than I, now that Agias is not here to devise for me.  You must make up any stories that are necessary to save us from interruption, and see that no one discovers anything or grows suspicious.  My hands are tied.  I cannot see to plan.  I will go to the library, and leave everything to you.”

And with this stoical resolve to bear with equanimity whatever the Fates flung in her way for good or ill, Cornelia tried to bury herself in her Lucretius.  Vain resolution!  What care for the atomic theory when in a day, an hour, a moment, she might be straining to her heart another heart that was reaching out toward hers, as hers did toward it.  It was useless to read; useless to try to admire the varying shades of blue on the sea, tones of green, and tones of deep cerulean, deepening and deepening, as her eye drifted off toward the horizon, like the blendings of a chromatic series.  And so Cornelia passed the morning in a mood of joyful discontent.  Lucius Ahenobarbus, who came to have his usual passage of arms with her, found her so extremely affable, yet half-preoccupied, that he was puzzled, yet on the whole delighted.  “She must be yielding,” he mentally commented; and when they played at draughts, Cornelia actually allowed herself to be beaten.  Ahenobarbus started off for Puteoli in an excellent humour.  His litter had barely swung down the road from the villa before Cassandra was knocking at her mistress’s chamber door.

“Io! domina,” was her joyful exclamation, “I think I have got every eavesdropper out of the way.  Ahenobarbus is off for Puteoli.  I have cooked up a story to keep the freedmen and other busybodies off.  You have a desperate headache, and cannot leave the room, nor see any one.  But remember the terrace over the water, where the colonnade shuts it in on all sides but toward the sea.  This afternoon, if a boat with two strange-looking fishermen passes under the embankment, don’t be surprised.”

And having imparted this precious bit of information, the woman was off.  Drusus’s gold pieces had made her the most successful of schemers.

II

Cornelia feigned her headache, and succeeded in making herself so thoroughly petulant and exacting to all her maids, that when she ordered them out of the room, and told them on no account to disturb her in any respect for the rest of the day, they “rejoiced with trembling,” and had no anxiety to thrust their attentions upon so unreasonable a mistress.  And a little while later a visit of a strolling juggler—­whose call had perhaps been prompted by Cassandra—­made their respite from duty doubly welcome.