"For a few days," replied Lentulus, in no very affable tone; "the heat and din of the city will drive me mad! And I have had no end of troublesome business. The senators are all fools or slaves of Caesar. That treacherous rascal, Curio, is blocking all our efforts. Even Pompeius is half-hearted in the cause. It wouldn't take much to make him go back to Caesar, and then where would we be?" "Where would we be?" said Claudia, half conscious of what she said, turning over wearily. "Don't talk politics, my dear brother. They are distressingly dull. My head aches at the very word." And she held out her hand and took the golden cup of hot drink which the negress offered her. "Aye," replied Lentulus, not in the least subdued, "where _will_ we be, if Pompeius and Caesar become friends? If there is no war, no proscription, no chance to make a sesterce in a hurry!" "My dear brother," said Claudia, still more languidly, and yawning at length, as she handed back the cup, "have I not said that the mere mention of politics makes my head ache?" "Then let it," said the other, brutally; "I must have some plain words with you." And he pointed toward the door. The two serving-maids took the hint, and retired. Claudia settled her head back on the pillows, and folded her hands as if to resign herself to a very dull tete-a-tete. "Have you any new debts?" demanded Lentulus. "What a tiresome question," murmured the lady. "No--no--yes; I owe Pomponius the fancier--I don't quite know how much--for my last Maltese lap dog." "Thank the gods that is all," went on her brother-in-law. "Now listen to me. I have been living beyond my means. Last year the canvass to get on the board of guardians of the Sibylline Books--in which that graceless son-in-law of Cicero's, Publius Dolabella, defeated me--cost a deal of money. This year I have the consulship. But it has taken every denarius I own, and more too. All my estates are involved, so that it will require years to redeem them, in the ordinary way." "How extremely unfortunate!" sighed Claudia, looking dreadfully bored. "If that was all I had to tell you," snapped back Lentulus, "I would not have disturbed your ladyship's repose. But you must be so indulgent as to listen." "Well?" said Claudia, yawning again and settling herself. "Your late husband left some little property," began the other. "Yes, to be sure; oh! my poor Caius!" and Claudia began to sob and wipe away the tears. "And this property I have involved," continued Lentulus, driving straight ahead and never heeding the widow's display of emotions. "It will be impossible for me to clear away the encumbrances for some little time." Claudia was excited now. She sprang up from her cushions and cried, or rather screamed:-- "Brute! Robber of orphans and widows! Heartless wretch! Have you pledged the slender fortune Caius left me, and the dowry of my poor dear Cornelia?" And her voice sank into hoarseness, and she began to sob once more.