With that acute faculty, peculiar to people of passionate temperament, for making themselves miserable when a desire is not immediately fulfilled, Cleopatra imagined Antony as deceptive, evasive, ready to betray her for the second time. The very exclamation that he had uttered on leaving her--"the poor woman!"--rang in her ears and increased her anger. What tender pity he had put into the words! How plainly he had implied that she was innocent of any offence! Did he still love her? After all, it was quite possible that this intriguing woman had retained her influence over his weak heart. At all events they were still good friends, and that alone was a torment to the woman who, for her own advantage, would have been willing to destroy the world. She would have no peace until Octavia went away, and she resolved to secure her banishment that very day. In the evening, when the Imperator returned, with the confident air of a man who, having satisfactorily accomplished his day's work, expects a certain reward, he had the disagreeable surprise of a cold welcome. Cleopatra had decided to smile upon him only on condition that he would carry out her wishes at once. She began: "You are sacrificing our happiness for the sake of a woman who no longer means anything to you!" "She is certainly nothing to me that can distress you, since I love only you!" "But you are still good friends!" He had gone over the same subject so often, defending himself and pointing out the motives for his attitude, that the futility of further words was clear to him. "How you do hate her!" he exclaimed, in a tone which implied, "How unjust you are!" This reproach was the last touch. Cleopatra was exasperated, and in a fury, demanded: "And you! How can you pretend that you no longer love her?" Kisses are the only sure means of persuasion between lovers, and she refused to let him come near her. Worn out, disheartened, like a man who has lost all interest in life, Antony asked sadly: "What is it that you wish? What further proof do you require from me?" A papyrus leaf was lying ready on the table. "Write!" commanded his despot. "Send an order to Octavia to depart for Rome as quickly as possible!" This ungracious act was repugnant to Antony's instinctive gallantry. He had never treated any woman rudely. Should he behave like a blackguard to the one who had every right to expect from him the greatest gratitude and consideration? He hesitated, his hand resting on his knee. "Yet you pretend to love me!" she murmured, her breath fanning his cheek. He realized that if he refused he would never again feel that sweet breath mingling with his own; that he would have to leave her, go to distant lands, contend with opposing forces, without having that last embrace which inspires men with courage and on the eve of battle makes them confident of victory. Without this powerful stimulus nothing seemed worth struggling for, his mighty enterprise would be in vain.