Rather late in the afternoon, a few days subsequently, the most noble Lucius Cornelius Lentulus Crus, consul-designate, and one of the most prominent politicians of his time and nation, arrived at Praeneste; having hurried away from Rome to escape for a little while the summer heats which made the capital anything but a pleasant place for residence.  Drusus’s travelling cortege would have seemed small enough compared with the hedge of outriders, footmen, and body-servants that surrounded the great man.  But notwithstanding his prospective dignities, and his present importance, Lentulus Crus was hardly an imposing personality.  He was a bald-pated, florid individual, with rough features, a low, flat forehead, and coarse lips.  He was dressed very fashionably, and was perfumed and beringed to an extent that would have been derided anywhere save in the most select circles of Rome.  He was stout, and when he alighted from his carriage, he moved away with a somewhat waddling gait, and lifted up a rasping, high-pitched voice in unsonorous complaint against a slave who let fall a parcel of baggage.

Clearly the master of the house had returned, and all the familia and freedmen bustled about their various tasks with the unusual promptitude and diligence which is the outcome of a healthy fear of retribution for slackness.  Lentulus went into the atrium, and there had an angry conference with the local land-steward, over some accounts which the latter presented.  In fact, so ill was the humour of the noble lord, that Cornelia avoided going out from her room to meet him, and pretended to be so engrossed in her Ennius that she did not hear he had come.

This pretence, however, could not last long.  Lentulus called out in a surly tone to know where his niece was, and the latter was fain to present herself.  It could not be said that the meeting between Cornelia and her uncle was extremely affectionate.  The interchange of kisses was painfully formal, and then Lentulus demanded somewhat abruptly:—­

“How have you been spending your time?  With that young ne’er-do-weel son of Sextus Drusus?”

“Quintus was here this morning,” said Cornelia, feeling a little reproachful at the manner in which her uncle had spoken of her lover.

“Just back from Rome, I presume?” said Lentulus, icily, “and he must fly over to the cote of his little dove and see that she hasn’t flitted away?  He’d better have a care in his doings.  He’ll have something more serious on hand than lovemaking before long.”

“I don’t understand you, uncle,” said Cornelia, turning rather red; “Quintus has never done anything for which he has cause to fear.”

“Oh, he hasn’t, eh?” retorted Lentulus. “Mehercle! what donkeys you women are!  You may go, I want to see your mother.”

“She is in her own room,” said Cornelia, turning her back; “I wish you would not speak to me in that way again.”