offered her.

"Aye," replied Lentulus, not in the least subdued, "where _will_ we
be, if Pompeius and Cæsar become friends? If there is no war, no
proscription, no chance to make a sesterce in a hurry!"

"My dear brother," said Claudia, still more languidly, and yawning at
length, as she handed back the cup, "have I not said that the mere
mention of politics makes my head ache?"

"Then let it," said the other, brutally; "I must have some plain words
with you." And he pointed toward the door. The two serving-maids took
the hint, and retired.

Claudia settled her head back on the pillows, and folded her hands as
if to resign herself to a very dull tête-à-tête.

"Have you any new debts?" demanded Lentulus.

"What a tiresome question," murmured the lady. "No--no--yes; I owe
Pomponius the fancier--I don't quite know how much--for my last
Maltese lap dog."

"Thank the gods that is all," went on her brother-in-law. "Now listen
to me. I have been living beyond my means. Last year the canvass to
get on the board of guardians of the Sibylline Books--in which that
graceless son-in-law of Cicero's, Publius Dolabella, defeated me--cost
a deal of money. This year I have the consulship. But it has taken
every denarius I own, and more too. All my estates are involved, so
that it will require years to redeem them, in the ordinary way."