became clear in her memory. Details
stood out mercilessly. Their relationship, their significance were
at the time as phantasmagoric as if she had been lost in the torturing
unrealities of a nightmare. Just after her uncle left she was called
to the room of Perilla's youngest child who had awakened with a sore
throat and fever. Against the protests of the nurse, she sat up with
him herself because through the shadows that darkened her mind she
groped after some service to her husband. When she was an old woman
she could have told what was carved on the cover of the little box
from which she gave the medicine every hour until the fever broke,
and the colour of the nurse's dress as she hurried in at dawn.
Practical matters claimed her attention after she had bathed and
dressed. The doctor was sent for to confirm her own belief that the
child had nothing more than a cold. The older boy's tutor consulted
her about a change in the hours of exercise. A Greek artist came to
talk over new decorations for the walls of the dining room.

The forenoon passed. The cold wind, which had been blowing all night,
an early herald of winter, died down. A portentous silence seemed
to isolate her from the rest of the city. At noon Ovid came home.
She felt no surprise. They clung to each other in silence and when
he did speak he seemed to be saying what she had known already. The
words made little impression. She only thought how white he was, and
how old, as old as she was herself. His voice seemed to reach her
ears from a great distance. He was to go away from her to the world's
end, to a place called Tomi on the terrible Black Sea. The formal
decree had stated as the cause the immorality of his _Art of
Love_--yes, the volume had been published ten years ago and he had
enjoyed the imperial favour as much since then as before. The real
reason, so the confidential messenger had explained to him, was
something quite different. It was not safe to tell her. Her ignorance
was better for them both. He had made a terrible blunder, the Emperor
called it a crime, but he was innocent of evil intent. No, there was
no use in making any plea. He had talked the matter over with Maximus,
although he had not told him what the "crime" was. Maximus had been
sure that nothing could be done, that denial would lead only to a
public trial, the verdict of which would be still more disastrous.
The Emperor was clement, his anger might cool, patience for a year
or