y cannot.
He must have been the quintessence of refinement, a thoroughbred to his
finger-tips; one for whom that purple mantle was too gaudy, and yet who
bore it, as he bore everything else, in that self-abnegatory spirit
which the higher reaches of philosophy bring.

He was of that rare type that never complains and always consoles.

After Antonin's death, his hours ceased to be his own. On the Euphrates
there was the wildest disorder. To the north new races were pushing
nations over the Danube and the Rhine. From the catacombs Christ was
emerging; from the Nile, Serapis. The empire was in disarray. Antonin
had provided his son-in-law with a coadjutor, Lucius Verus, the son of
Hadrian's mignon, a magnificent scoundrel; a tall, broad-shouldered
athlete, with a skin as fresh as a girl's and thick curly hair, which
he covered with a powder of gold; a viveur, whose suppers are famous
still; whose guests were given the slaves that served them, the plate
off which they had eaten, the cups from which they had drunk--cups of
gold, cups of silver, jewelled cups, cups from Alexandria, murrhine
vases filled with nard--cars and litters to go home with, mules with
silver trappings and negro muleteers. Capitolinus says that, while the
guests feasted, sometimes the magnificent Verus got drunk, and was
carried to bed in a coverlid, or else, the red feather aiding, turned
out and fought the watch.

It was this splendid individual to whom Marcus Aurelius entrusted the
Euphrates. They had been brought up together, sharing each others
tutors, writing themes for the same instructor, both meanwhile
adolescently enamored of the fair Faustine. It was to Marcus she was
given, the empire as a dower; and when that dower passed into his
hands, he could think of nothing more equitable than to ask Verus to
share it with him. Verus was not stupid enough to refuse, and at the
hour when the Parthians turned ugly, he needed little urging to set out
for the East, dreaming, as he did so, of creating there an empire that
should be wholly his.

At that time Faustine must have been at least twenty-eight, possibly
thirty. There were matrons who had not seen their fifteenth year, and
Faustine had been married young. Her daughter, Lucille, was nubile.
Presently Verus, or rather his lieutenants, succeeded, and the girl was
betrothed to him. There was a festival, of course, games in abundance,
and plenty of blood.

It would have been interesting to have se