Cornelia knew later, when she was older and had thought more, that the queen had instantly caught the defiant mood of her guest, and thereupon left nothing unspared to conciliate it.  At that moment, however, she attempted no such analysis of motive.  She was conscious of only one thing:  the luminous personality of Cleopatra.  The queen was all that Cornelia had noticed her to be when they met at the Great Square; but she was more than a beautiful woman.  In fact, in mere bodily perfection Monime or Berenice might well have stood beside her.  The glance of the queen went through and through her guests like arrows of softly burning light.  It was impossible to withdraw one’s eyes from her; impossible to shake off the spell of an enjoyable magnetism.  If she moved her long, shapely fingers, it was speech; if she raised her hand, eloquence.  As shade after shade of varying emotion seemed to pass across Cleopatra’s face, it was as if one saw the workings of a masterful spirit as in a mirror; and now could cry, “This is one of the Graces,” and now “This is one of the Fates,” as half-girlish candour and sweetness was followed by a lightning flash from the eyes, disclosing the deep, far-recessed subtleties of the soul within.  Cornelia had entered the hall haughty, defiant; a word and a look—­she was the most obedient vassal.

Cornelia had seen many a splendid banquet and dinner party in Rome.  Even Oriental kings had not a great deal to teach the “masters of the toga” in ostentatious luxury.  Perhaps the queen had realized this.  The present occasion called, indeed for very little formality, for, besides Cornelia, Cleomenes was the only guest; and when that gentleman inquired politely if his Majesty, the King Ptolemaeus, was to honour them with his presence, Cleopatra replied, with an eloquent raising of the eyebrows:—­

“The king will be to-night, as he always is, with his tutor—­Pothinus.”

There was indescribable scorn in the last word.

The doors of the reception hall had been flung back on noiseless pivots by unseen hands.  The banqueting room disclosed within was not so much a room as a garden.  Flowers, flowers were everywhere, roses, violets, narcissuses, and a score of others breathing forth a heavy fragrance.  Overhead, the goldstudded ceiling was converted into a vast arbour of blending flowery tints.  The room was large, very large for only three banqueters; on the walls, from out between the potted tropical plants, shone marvellous marble reliefs, one hundred in all; and in betwixt them were matchless paintings.  Framing, after a fashion, the pictures, were equally perfect embroideries, portraying in silk and fine linen the stories of Thebes, the kingly house of Argos, and many another myth of fame.  The pillars of the room represented palm trees and Bacchic thyrsi; skins of wild beasts were fastened high up to the walls; and everywhere was the sheen of silver and gold, the splendour of scarlet and purple tapestries.