two hundred
thousand sesterces, she gathered no little satisfaction by the
consciousness that all the young men were admiring her, and all the
women were fuming with jealousy. But this life was unspeakably
wearisome, after the first novelty had worn away. Cornelia lived in an
age when many of the common proprieties and decencies of our present
society would have been counted prudish, but she could not close her
eyes to the looseness and license that pervaded her mother's world.
Woman had become almost entirely independent of man in social and
economic matters, though the law still kept its fictions of tutelage.
Honourable marriages were growing fewer and fewer. Divorces were
multiplying. The morality of the time can be judged from the fact that
the "immaculate" Marcus Cato separated from his wife that a friend
might marry her; and when the friend died, married her himself again.
Scandals and love intrigues were common in the highest circles; noble
ladies, and not ballet-dancers[86] merely, thought it of little
account to have their names besmirched. Everything in society was
splendid, polished, decorous, cultivated without; but within, hollow
and rotten.

[86] _Mimae_.

Cornelia grew weary and sick of the excitement, the fashionable
chatter, the mongering of low gossips. She loathed the sight of the
effeminate young fops who tried to win her smiles by presenting
themselves for a polite call each morning, polished and furbelowed,
and rubbed sleek and smooth with Catanian pumice. Her mother disgusted
her so utterly that she began to entertain the most unfilial feeling
toward the worthy woman. Cornelia would not or could not understand
that in such hot weather it was proper to wear lighter rings than in
winter, and that each ring must be set carefully on a different finger
joint to prevent touching. Cornelia watched her servants, and reached
the astonishing conclusion that these humble creatures were really
extracting more pleasure out of life than herself. Cassandra had
recovered from her whipping, and was bustling about her tasks as if
nothing had happened. Agias seemed to have a never failing fund of
good spirits. He was always ready to tell the funniest stories or
retail the latest news. Once or twice he brought his mistress
unspeakable delight, by smuggling into the house letters from Drusus,
which contained words of love and hope, if no really substantial
promises for the future. But this was poor enough comfort