She stood beside
him shoulder to shoulder. Virgilia was unusually tall. She had
inherited the fine, cameo-like profile of her mother, but her hair was
fair and very abundant. It was bound around her head in heavy braids
and was not decorated by any jewel. Her white draperies had fallen
from her arm, disclosing its pure whiteness and delicate outline.
Virgilia looked straight at her mother and spoke, breaking sharply the
silence following the two words of Martius. The sun had now set. It
was almost dark in the garden. The lilies gleamed ghostly white among
their long green leaves. The odor of the jessamine was heavy on the
evening air, overpowering in its sweetness. A servant entered and
lighted torches in iron rings fastened on the fluted pillows. He lit,
also, the wicks in huge bronze lamps placed here and there, and in a
three-tapered silver lamp on a table by Claudia's side.
The soft radiance lit up the strange scene, the Roman matron, seated
in her chair, jewels gleaming in her dark hair and on her bosom, her
face set and stern.
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