And less and less of a Roman, Cornelia, the Hellene-hater, became.  Greek was the only tongue now that sounded in her ear, unless she talked privately with Fabia or was beguiled into trying to learn a little Egyptian—­a language Berenice and Monime spoke fluently.  The clothes she wore were no longer stola and palla, but chiton and himation.  The whole atmosphere about her was foreign, down to the cries on the streets.  And Italy was very far away, and the last memories thereof none the most pleasant.

It chanced that one morning Cleomenes, Monime, and Cornelia were driving down the great central street, under the shadow of seemingly endless colonnades.

“A! dearest one,” cried Monime, “why must you think of leaving our lovely Alexandria, of going back to cold, cheerless Rome?  What good thing does Rome send out but stern men and sharp iron?”

Cornelia shook her head and made answer—­

“You Alexandrians are not one nation, but all the world; therefore you think all who are less cosmopolitan poor.  See, I count in the crowds not only the dark Egyptians and fair Greeks, but a Persian in his splendid long kaftan, and a very venerable Jew, and a wiry little Arab, and Syrians, and negroes, and, I think, a Hindoo.”

“And yourself, my lady, a Roman,” concluded Cleomenes.  “Truly all the earth has met in our city.”

They whirled down the splendid highway that ran straight as an arrow the whole length of the city, lined on either side by a forest of the infinite number of columns of the great stretches of porticos.  Handsomely dressed cavalrymen of the palace guard were dashing to and fro over the clean, hard pavement; elegant carriages containing the noble and wealthy were whirling in every direction.  At each glance, the eye lit on some pleasing bit of sculpture, some delicate curve of architecture.  Statues were everywhere, everywhere colour, everywhere crowds of gayly dressed citizens and foreigners.  Cornelia contrasted the symmetrical streets, all broad, swept, and at right angles—­the triumph of the wise architectural planning of Dinocrates—­with the dirty, unsightly, and crooked lanes of the City of the Seven Hills, and told herself, as she had told herself often in recent days, that Romans had much yet to learn.

They drove on past the Amphitheatre toward the Egyptian quarter of the Rhacotis; and here, at the intersection of the Great Street with the other broad way leading from the “Gate of the Moon” on the harbour to the “Gate of the Sun” on Lake Mareotis, a moving hedge of outriders, cavalrymen, and foot-guards met them.

“The queen coming from the Serapeum,” said Cleomenes, drawing rein.