“There are in fact women here of incredible charm,” replied Verus quite coolly.  White, brown, copper-colored, black—­and all delightful in their way.  I could never be tired of admiring them.”

“And your wife?” asked Lucilla, facing him, sternly.  “My wife? yes, my fairest.  Wife is a solemn title of honor and has nothing to do with the joys of life.  How could I mention your name in the same hour with those of the poor children who help me to beguile an idle hour.”

Domitia Lucilla was used to such phrases, and yet on this occasion they gave her a pang.  But she concealed it, and crossing her arms she said resolutely and with dignity: 

“Go your way—­through life with your Ovid, and your gods of love, but do not attempt to crush innocence under the wheels of your chariot.”

“Balbilla do you mean,” asked the praetor with a loud laugh.  “She knows how to take care of herself and has too much spirit to let herself get entangled in erotics.  The little son of Venus has nothing to say to two people who are such good friends as she and I are.”

“May I believe you?”

“My word for it, I ask nothing of her but a kind word,” cried he, frankly offering his hand to his wife.  Lucilla only touched it lightly with her fingers and said: 

“Send me back to Rome.  I have an unutterable longing to see my children, particularly the boys.”

“It cannot be,” said Verus.  “Not at present; but in a few weeks, I hope.”

“Why not sooner?”

“Do not ask me.”

“A mother may surely wish to know why she is separated from her baby in the cradle.”

“That cradle is at present in your mother’s house, and she is taking care of our little ones.  Have patience, a little longer for that which I am striving after, for you, and for me, and not last, for our son, is so great, so stupendously great and difficult that it might well outweigh years of longing.”

Verus spoke the last words in a low tone, but with a dignity which characterized him only in decisive moments, but his wife, even before he had done speaking, clasped his right-hand in both of hers and said in a low frightened voice: 

“You aim at the purple?” He nodded assent.

“That is what it means then!”

“What?”

“Sabina and you—­”

“Not on that account only; she is hard and sharp to others, but to me she has shown nothing but kindness, ever since I was a boy.”

“She hates me.”

“Patience, Lucilla; patience!  The day is coming when the daughter of Nigrinus, the wife of Caesar, and the former Empress—­but I will not finish.  I am, as you know, warmly attached to Sabina, and sincerely wish the Emperor a long life.”

“And he will adopt.”

“Hush!—­he is thinking of it, and his wife wishes It.”

“Is it likely to happen soon?”

“Who can tell at this moment what Caesar may decide on in the very next hour.  But probably his decision may be made on the thirtieth of December.”