soon as Lentulus was out of the way, caused the tell-tale to receive a cruel whipping, which kept the poor slave-girl groaning in her cell for ten days, and did not relieve Cornelia’s own distress in the slightest degree.  As a matter of fact, Cornelia was perpetually goaded into fresh outbursts of desperation by the tyrannical attitude of her uncle.  Lentulus boasted in her presence that he would accomplish Drusus’s undoing.  “I’ll imitate Sulla,” he would announce, in mean pleasure at giving his niece pain; “I’ll see how many heads I can have set up as he did at the Lacus Servilius.  You can go there, if you wish to kiss your lover.”

But Cornelia’s life at Rome was rendered unhappy by many other things besides these occasional brutal stabs from her uncle.  Her mother, as has been hinted, was a woman of the world, and had an intense desire to draw her daughter into her own circle of society.  Claudia cared for Cornelia in a manner, and believed it was a real kindness to tear the poor girl away from her solitary broodings and plunge her into the whirl of the world of Roman fashion.  Claudia had become an intimate of Clodia, the widow of Quintus Metellus, a woman of remarkable gifts and a notoriously profligate character.  “The Medea of the Palatine Hill,” Cicero had bitingly styled her.  Nearly all the youth of parts and social distinction enjoyed the wild pleasures of Clodia’s garden by the Tiber.  Catullus the poet, Caelius the brilliant young politician, and many another had figured as lovers of this soulless and enchanting woman.  And into Clodia’s gilded circle Claudia tried desperately to drag her daughter.  The Lentuli had a handsome palace on the Carinae, one of the most fashionable quarters of the capital; and here there were many gay gatherings and dinner parties.  Cornelia was well born enough, by reputation wealthy enough, and in feature handsome enough, to have a goodly proportion of the young men of this coterie her devoted admirers and slaves.  Claudia observed her daughter’s social triumphs with glee, and did all she could to give Cornelia plenty of this kind of company.  Cornelia would not have been a mortal woman if she had not taken a certain amount of pleasure in noticing and exercising her power.  The first occasion when she appeared at a formal banquet in the splendid Apollo dinner hall of the Luculli, where the outlay on the feast was fixed by a regular scale at two hundred thousand sesterces, she gathered no little satisfaction by the consciousness that all the young men were admiring her, and all the women were fuming with jealousy.  But this life was unspeakably wearisome, after the first novelty had worn away.  Cornelia lived in an age when many of the common proprieties and decencies of our present society would have been counted prudish, but she could not close her eyes to the looseness and license that pervaded her mother’s world.  Woman had become almost entirely independent of man in social and economic matters, though the law still