When Quintus had washed and put on a clean dress he went, still accompanied by Norbanus and his centurion, into his father’s study, where the family had assembled. Quintus wondered to find his mother so calm, comparatively speaking. He did not know, with what enormous effort of self-command Titus Claudius had represented the catastrophe as a trifling mistake, a mere misunderstanding. Lucilia was a good deal excited; the exceptional and startling character of the event gave her fancy much to busy it. She would have given the world to talk over the occurrences of the last few days with Fabulla, the wise old mother of her friend Cneius Afranius; but now, in all this confusion, an expedition to Ostia was quite out of the question. So she must think it all over to herself alone, particularly as Claudia had shut herself up in unapproachable reserve, and had no answer for any questions but “Yes” and “No.” Even now, when her brother came into the room, Claudia was very chary of her words, in marked contrast to Lucilia. And yet Quintus was obscurely conscious, that she took the situation more gravely and seriously than either Octavia or the excited Lucilia. And, in fact, Claudia knew her brother too well, not to feel sure that something deeper was at work here than a mere foolish adventure. The audacity of wild spirits craves a public; its extravagant flights are displayed to those who are like-minded, and who will applaud and admire. But when a man like Quintus had carried out a plan in secret and among such unfamiliar companions, it could be no jesting matter. During an hour which he spent with his family, Quintus himself was for the most part silent. Seated in a deep easy-chair, he eat a small breakfast which Lucilia brought to him. The Flamen meanwhile exerted himself to explain to the party, what steps he had taken to win Caesar’s favor and clemency for his son, and what the ceremonial sacrifice, which Quintus was to offer, must consist in. The more the father talked, the more the son’s heart was wrung. He might be absolutely convinced of all he so vehemently uttered; to Quintus it was all a foul lie, a ridiculous and cowardly subterfuge. It was a lie, to say that mere boyish curiosity had led him to assist at a meeting of the Nazarenes; it was a lie, that intriguing knaves had taken advantage of his curiosity under false pretences. It was a lie, that the Nazarenes had plotted to overthrow the whole fabric of Roman society, that they had fanned his ambition after befooling him, that they had abused his good nature. It was above all a lie, to say that he bitterly repented of ever having had anything to do with the Nazarenes, and only longed to purge himself publicly of the disgrace of that contact. Why was it so impossible to convince the priest--usually so calm, clear-sighted, and just--of the error of his prejudice? Why had he so resolutedly closed his eyes and heart to the truth?