as he came, leaving some wild sentence reechoing behind him. But at
all times they were amazingly frank with each other. So now Clodia's
eyes met his calmly enough as he said without any preface: "I have
come to answer your note. I prefer that my wife should keep out of
your circle. You used to have doves about you, who could protect a
wren, but they are fluttering away now and your own plumage is
appalling." With the phrase his eyes became conscious of her emeralds
and her shimmering Cean silks and then travelled to the nude grace
of Venus the Plunderer. He faced her violently. "Clodia," he said,
slaying a sentence on her lips, "Clodia, do you know that hell is
here on this earth and that such as you help to people it? There is
no Tityus, his heart eaten out by vultures, save the victim of passion.
And what passion is more devouring than that frenzy of the lover which
is never satisfied? Venus's garlanded hours are followed by misery.
She plunders men of their money, of their liberty, of their character.
Duties give way to cups and perfumes and garlands. And yet, amid the
very flowers pain dwells. The lover fails to understand and sickness
creeps upon him, as men sicken of hidden poison. Tell me," he added
brutally, leaning toward her, "for who should know better than you?
does not the sweetest hour of love hold a drop of bitter? Why do you
not restore your lovers to their reason, to the service of the state,
to a knowledge of nature?"

His eyes were hot with pity for the world's pain. Hers grew cold.
"Jove," she sneered, "rules the world and kisses Juno between the
thunderbolts. Men have been known to conquer the Helvetii with their
right hands and bring roses to Venus with their left. Your 'poison'
is but the spicy sauce for a strong man's meat, your 'plundering'
but the stealing of a napkin from a loaded table. Look for your
denizens of hell not among lovers of women, but among lovers of money