Besides, she is not really a wicked woman.

Or is she?
All I know is that where any advantage is to be gained for the Queen, she does not shrink even from doubtful means, and also that the hours speed swiftly for any one in her society.

Yes, Iras, Iras--I like to utter the name.

Yet I do not love her, and she--loves only herself, and--a thing few can say--another still more.

What is the world, what am I to her, compared with the Queen, the idol of her heart?
Since Cleopatra's departure, Iras seems like the forsaken Ariadne, or a young roe which has strayed from its mother.