Her loosened thoughts hurried on more ambitiously still.  Of Maecenas’s recent kindness Propertius was inordinately proud.  Would it not be possible to reach the great man through Tullus, her son’s faithful friend, whose government position gave him a claim upon the prime minister’s attention?  Surely, if the older man realised how fast the boy was throwing his life away he would put out a restraining hand.  She had always understood that he set great store by Roman morals.  Rising from her chair with fresh energy, she bade a servant bring her writing materials to the library.  The swift Roman night had fallen, and the house looked dull and dim except within the short radius of each lamp.  But to her it seemed lit by a new and saving hope.

II

Nearly a week later Horace was dining quietly with Maecenas.  It was during one of the frequent estrangements between the prime minister and his wife, and Maecenas often sent for Horace when the strain of work had left him with little inclination to collect a larger company.  The meal was over, and on the polished citron-wood table stood a silver mixing-bowl, and an hospitable array—­after the princely manner of the house—­of gold cups, crystal flagons, and tall, slender glasses which looked as if they might have been cut out of deep-hued amethyst.  The slaves had withdrawn, as it was one of the first nights of the Saturnalia and their duties were lightened by a considerate master.  The unusual cold and the savage winds that had held Rome in their grip for the past few days were forgotten within the beautiful dining-room.  A multitude of lamps, hanging from the lacquered ceiling, standing around the room on tall AEginetan candelabra, and resting on low, graceful standards on the table itself, threw a warm radiance over the mosaic floor and over the walls painted with architectural designs, through which, as if through colonnades of real marble, charming landscapes lured and beckoned.  One of the choicest Greek wines in the host’s famous cellar had been brought in for the friends.  There was enough snow on Soracte, Maecenas had said laughingly, to justify the oldest Chian, if Horace could forego his Italian numbers and his home-brewed Sabine for one night.

“I will leave both my metre and my stomach to the gods,” Horace had retorted, “if you will turn over to them your worry about Rome, and pluck the blossom of the hour with me.  Augustus is safe in Spain, you cannot be summoned to the Palatine, and to-morrow is early enough for the noise of the Forum.  By the way,” he added somewhat testily and unexpectedly, “I wish I could ever get to your house without being held up for ‘news.’  A perfect stranger—­he pretended to know me—­stopped me to-night and asked me if I thought there was anything in the rumour that Augustus has no intention of going to get the standards back from the Parthians, but is thinking only of the Spanish gold-mines.  ’Does he think to wing our Roman