“Agias,” said Cornelia, quietly, “Quintus said that you would be a faithful servant to him and to myself.  I believe he was right.  You have asked a great thing of me, Agias.  I would not do it unless I believed that you were unlike other slaves.  I might imagine that Lucius Ahenobarbus had bribed you to tell me this story, in order that I should put myself in his power.  But I trust you.  I will do anything you say.  For you Hellenes have wits as keen as sharp steel, and I know that you will do all you may to repay your debt to Quintus.”

Agias knelt down and kissed the robe of his mistress.  “My lady,” he said gently, “it is no grievous thing to be a slave of such as you.  Believe me; I will not betray my trust.  And now if you can let me leave you, I will hurry to Praeneste, and for the present our minds may be at rest.  For old Mamercus will, I am sure, be able to take good care of Master Drusus for yet awhile.”

“Go, and the gods—­if there be gods—­go with you!” replied Cornelia.  Agias kissed her robe a second time, and was gone.  His mistress stood in the middle of the empty room.  On the wall facing her was a painting of “Aphrodite rising from the Foam,” which Drusus had given her.  The sensuous smiles on the face of the goddess sickened Cornelia, as she looked upon it.  To her, at the moment, laughter was more hideous than any sobbing.  Outside the door she heard the gay, witless chatter of the maids and the valets.  They were happy—­they—­slaves, “speaking tools,”—­and she with the blood of the Claudii and Cornelii in her veins, a patrician among patricians, the niece of a consul-elect, a woman who was the heiress of statesmen and overturners of kingdoms,—­she was miserable beyond endurance.  Cornelia paced up and down the room, wishing she might order the giggling maids to be flogged and their laughter turned into howling.  Then she summoned Cassandra.

* * * * *

Cornelia had never before tried to play the actress, but that night she flung herself into the game for life and death with all the earnestness of an energetic, intelligent, and spontaneous woman.  She had been barely civil to Lucius Ahenobarbus before; to-night the young man began to persuade himself that the object of his affections was really a most adorable coquette, who used a certain brusqueness of speech to add to her witchery.  He had heard that there had been some very disagreeable scenes at Praeneste, when Lentulus had told his niece that Drusus, on account of his dangerous politics, was unfit to be her husband.  But Ahenobarbus was sure that either these accounts were exaggerated, or more likely, Cornelia, like most women, was quick to fall in love and quick to leave an old sweetheart for a new one.  Be that as it may, Lucius felt that night on good terms with himself and all the world.  Phormio had consented to continue his loans—­until his debtor could realize on “certain property.”  Pratinas had