The clothes she wore were no longer stola and palla, but chiton and himation.

The whole atmosphere about her was foreign, down to the cries on the streets.

And Italy was very far away, and the last memories thereof none the most pleasant.
It chanced that one morning Cleomenes, Monime, and Cornelia were driving down the great central street, under the shadow of seemingly endless colonnades.
"_A!_ dearest one," cried Monime, "why must you think of leaving our lovely Alexandria, of going back to cold, cheerless Rome?
What good thing does Rome send out but stern men and sharp iron ?" Cornelia shook her head and made answer-- "You Alexandrians are not one nation, but all the world; therefore you think all who are less cosmopolitan poor.

See, I count in the crowds not only the dark Egyptians and fair Greeks, but a Persian in his splendid long kaftan, and a very venerable Jew, and a wiry little Arab, and Syrians, and negroes, and, I think, a Hindoo." "And yourself, my lady, a Roman," concluded Cleomenes.

"Truly all the earth has met in our city." They whirled down the splendid highway that ran straight as an arrow the whole length of the city, lined on either side by a forest of the infinite number of columns of the great stretches of porticos.
Handsomely dressed cavalrymen of the palace guard were dashing to and fro over the clean, hard pavement; elegant carriages containing the noble and wealthy were whirling in every direction.