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Updated: June 20, 2025
I cannot give up Perilla long, even with this young Roman as a hostage." The child had fallen asleep, and with a light kiss on his tousled curls the grandfather turned him over to his mother's arms. "Let us leave these connoisseurs to discuss his dimples," he said to his son-in-law, "drag our other boy out of his bee-hives and have one more game of ball before I get too old."
"There's something, isn't there, I should do about about turning it over to you?" He drew her head down against his shoulder. "No use bothering about that now," he shrugged. "We're going to be made one so soon that How about riding to Perilla to-morrow and " "Oh, Buck!" she protested. "I I couldn't." His arm tightened about her. "Well, say the day after," he suggested.
He was tiring out his friends. Perilla no longer let Fidus see his letters. Even in her own heart the sharpest sorrow was not his exile but his defeat. Her love had outlived her pride. The dreaded night was coming on. Would he moan in his sleep again, without her quieting hand upon his face, or wake from dreams of her to loneliness? She rose impetuously and looked up through the narrow window.
In the recurrent springs of her after life the faint smell of the burgeoning earth filled her with an unappeasable desire. The next week Fidus and Perilla started for Libya, leaving the two children with their grandfather rather than expose them to the dangers of the African climate. Ovid and Fabia spent the summer as usual in the cool Apennines at the old family homestead at Sulmo.
Ovid's eyes rested whimsically on the young man, and after a pause he said: "Art is one thing and conduct is another. I trust Perilla to you but with no firmer assurance of her happiness than I have of Fabia's entrusted to me. Soldiering and proconsuling have their place, but so has the service of the Muses.
Either he had merely rented his place to the instigator of the plot, and was prudently absenting himself for a while, or else he was one of those who had escaped through the rear door. Most of the Mexicans were natives of Perilla, and one and all swore that they were as innocent of evil intent as unborn children. They had merely happened to be there getting a meal when the fracas started.
Perilla had always said that it was worth while to pay attention to her father's birthday, because he could accept family incense without strutting like a god and was never so charming as when he was being spoiled.
He was indifferent, let us say. Talking to Dr. Herrick was, somehow, like talking to a man in a fog. . . . Meanwhile, he wrote his verses to imaginary women to Corinna and Julia, to Myrha, Electra and Perilla those lovely, shadow women who never, in so far as we know, had any real existence " Sir Thomas smiled. "Of course. They are mere figments of the poet, pegs to hang rhymes on.
They talked in broken sentences. She promised to comfort Perilla. He was glad his father and mother were dead. He hoped her daughter could come to her at once from Verona. They were interrupted by the stormy arrival of a few faithful friends how few they were she did not realise until later.
Perilla went back to the house with them, confessing, with a laugh, that an hour with her boy at bed-time was more important than trying to change her perfect mother. It was not yet time to dress for the birthday dinner, which was to crown the day, and Fabia lingered on in the garden to watch the gathering rose in the late afternoon sky above the tree-tops.
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