The latter picked up the scraps of knowledge with a surprising readiness, and would set Cornelia a-laughing by her _naivete_, when she soberly intermixed her speech with bits of grave poetical and philosophical lore, uttered more for sake of sound than sense.
As a matter of fact, however, Cornelia was fast approaching a point where her position would have been intolerable.

She did not even have the stimulus that comes from an active aggressive persecution.

Drusus was in the world of action, not forgetful of his sweetheart, yet not pent up to solitary broodings on his ill-fated passion.

Cornelia was thrust back upon herself, and found herself a very discontented, wretched, love-lorn, and withal--despite her polite learning--ignorant young woman, who took pleasure neither in sunlight nor starlight; who saw a mocking defiance in every dimple of the sapphire bay; who saw in each new day merely a new period for impotent discontent.

Something had to determine her situation, or perhaps she would not indeed have bowed her head to her uncle's will; but she certainly would have been driven to resolutions of the most desperate nature.
Cornelia had practically lost reckoning of time and seasons.