te impotent to thwart
his ends. Cornelia devoted much of her time to teaching the bright
little Greek. The latter picked up the scraps of knowledge with a
surprising readiness, and would set Cornelia a-laughing by her
_naivete_, when she soberly intermixed her speech with bits of grave
poetical and philosophical lore, uttered more for sake of sound than
sense.

As a matter of fact, however, Cornelia was fast approaching a point
where her position would have been intolerable. She did not even have
the stimulus that comes from an active aggressive persecution. Drusus
was in the world of action, not forgetful of his sweetheart, yet not
pent up to solitary broodings on his ill-fated passion. Cornelia was
thrust back upon herself, and found herself a very discontented,
wretched, love-lorn, and withal--despite her polite learning--ignorant
young woman, who took pleasure neither in sunlight nor starlight; who
saw a mocking defiance in every dimple of the sapphire bay; who saw in
each new day merely a new period for impotent discontent. Something
had to determine her situation, or perhaps she would not indeed have
bowed her head to her uncle's will; but she certainly would have been
driven to resolutions of the most desperate nature.

Cornelia had practically lost reckoning of time and seasons. She had
ceased hoping for a letter from her mother; even a taunting missive
from Ahenobarbus would have been a diversion. She was so closely
guarded that she found herself praying that Drusus would not try to
steal a second interview, for the attempt might end in his murder.
Only one stray crumb of comfort at last did she obtain, and it was
Artemisia who brought it to her. The girl had been allowed by Phaon to
walk outside the grounds of the villa for a little way, and her pretty
face had won the good graces of one or two slave-boys in an adjoining
seaside house. Artemisia came back full of news which they had
imparted: the consuls had fled from Rome; Pompeius was retreating
before Caesar; the latest rumour had it that Domitius was shut up in
Corfinium and likely to come off hardly.

The words were precious as rubies to Cornelia. She went all that day
and the next with her head in the air. Perhaps with a lover's subtle
omniscience she imagined that it was Drusus who had some part in
bringing Domitius to bay. She pictured the hour when he--with a legion
no doubt at his back--would come to Baiae, not a stealthy, forbidden
lover, but a