Drusus lived, was safe, would do great things, would win a name and a fame in the world of politics and arms.

For herself she had but one ambition--to hear men say, "This woman is the wife of the great Quintus Drusus." That would have been Elysium indeed.
Cornelia, in fact, was building around her a world of sweet fantasy, that grew so real, so tangible, that the stern realities of life, realities that had hitherto worn out her very soul, became less galling.

The reaction following the collapse of the plot against Drusus had thrown her into an unnatural cheerfulness.

For the time the one thought when she arose in the morning, the one thought when she fell asleep at night, was, "One day," or "One night more is gone, of the time that severs me from Quintus." It was a strained, an unhealthy cheerfulness; but while it lasted it made all the world fair for Cornelia.

Indeed, she had no right--from one way of thinking--not to enjoy herself, unless it be that she had no congenial companions.