“The decorations of this room,” said the queen, as her two guests entered, “are nearly all preserved from the great banqueting pavilion of Ptolemaeus Philadelphus, which he erected for the grand festival that ushered in his reign.”

Cornelia drew back as her foot crossed the threshold.  Her sandals trod on the fair white cup of a blooming lily.  The queen laughed as merrily as a little girl at her confusion.

“In Rome, I doubt not,” she said, smiling, “there are not flowers enough at this time of year to have them for a carpet.  But this is Alexandria.  Flowers are never out of bloom.”

So Cornelia advanced, but perhaps it grieved her more to tread on the innocent flowers, than any small thing had since she left Baiae.

And then the banquet, if such it may be termed when there are but three to enjoy it, began.  Cleopatra knew well that she could not overwhelm her Roman guest with show of plate and gems, nor did she try.  But Cornelia forgot about such things long before they rose.  For the queen displayed to her a myriad dainty perfections and refinements that never had endeared themselves to the grosser Italian gourmands.  Cleomenes had whispered to his companion, before they reached the palace, “Plato tells of four sorts of flattery; but I can promise you a thousand sorts from Cleopatra if she but cares to win your friendship.”  And surely the queen did thus desire.  For Cornelia was surfeited with strange dishes, and rare sherbets, flowers, and music; surfeited with everything save the words that fell from the lips of Cleopatra.

The more the queen spoke, the more complete became the vassalage of her guest.  Cornelia discovered that this woman, who was but little older than she, could speak fluently seven languages, and carried about with her an exceedingly accurate knowledge, not merely of the administration of Egypt, but of the politics of Rome, and the details of the great contest racking the Republic.  When Cleopatra asked questions concerning Roman affairs, Cornelia was fain to confess ignorance and be put to shame.  And as the evening advanced, Cornelia found herself talking with more and more confidence to this woman that she had never addressed until an hour before.  Cleopatra of course knew, as all Alexandria knew, that Cornelia and Fabia were Roman ladies of the highest rank, who had been forced to take refuge abroad until the political crisis was over.  But now Cornelia told the queen the true reasons that had led her to be willing to submit to Demetrius’s friendly kidnapping; and when, in a burst of frankness,—­which in a saner moment Cornelia would have deemed unwise,—­she told of her betrothal to Drusus and willingness to wait long for him, if they might only come together in the end, the queen seemed unable to speak with her usual bright vivacity.  Presently she said:—­

“So you love this young man as none other?  You are willing to be all your life his handmaid, his slave?”