The conspirators have it all wrapped up, thanks to the sleight-of tongue of their ringleader.

A crowd baying for blood after the murder of their emperor has been deftly manipulated until, as one man, they agree with the assassins.

Brutus judges his crowd with spit-second efficiency because if he doesn’t, he will soon follow the man he has murdered, into the land of the dead.

I loved Caesar, you know I did, he tells them. And they nod: they knew that. They’ve seen them together, the closest of friends. Tu, Brute.

I loved Caesar’s valour, he adds: but his ambition had to go. Had Caesar been given absolute power, all Rome’s citizens would end up as slaves.

Shakespeare’s writing at this point in Julius Caesar  blurs concepts to the point where they are ill-defined enough to sway a crowd. It blinds them with oratory.

And then along comes Mark Anthony, Caesar’s friend. And as he begins to speak, stricken with grief, his anger gives his words wings.

He says what the crowd is thinking. These are all honourable men, he tells them. Let’s get that out on the table. And now, he says, to address the crime of ambition.

Do ambitious men cry when the poor cry? Do ambitious men refuse a crown readily offered? Reason has flown to the beasts, he ends, and my heart is in the coffin of my friend.

Brutus speaks from the head. Mark Anthony, though – he argues skillfully from the pit of his stomach, the ancient seat of the emotions.

And so it is for us. Sometimes one can spend an hour rapt, following  a reasoned argument with passion straight from the stomach; others, an hour can crawl by under the tutelage of one who simply can not get to the point, and whose passion seems faded by years of blunting repetition.

Today we visited a notable stately home, one with a glittering history stretching from the 17th century to the present day, taking in duels and fires and rebuilds and socialites and so much more.

The estate is utterly beautiful with landscaping fit for the Prince Regent who once lived there. Entry to the house, though:that was a different matter. It is a sumptuous hotel these days, and entry is by timed tour only.

We turned up at the allotted time to find a kindly old volunteer gentleman preparing to lead us on the tour. Tweedy and fustian, he was chatting volubly to someone in the queue.

When all had arrived we were ushered into a foyer where a display  outlined the various owners from 1668 until the National Trust’s acquisition.

And then began the speech.

And with a sinking feeling I knew that this was going to be a very trying hour: or possibly longer.

In a soporific monotone, the gentleman sketched history with a wandering pencil, meandering through four hundred years impressionistically. He was knowledgable: but time travel requires focus.

My mind began to grope around for a handle, a theme – anything on which to hang the inexorable wave of information.

It took 15 minutes to travel 400 years. Felix had glazed over and I was glancing desperately at the door through which we had just entered. Would it be the done thing to turn and bolt?

It would not. This was an elite hotel: riff raff must stay with the parties which trailed after their wards.

And then, without warning, the rise and fall of speech subsided and we were beckoned inwards.

Only a few steps, though. We shuffled along admiring portraits and plans and one rather nice set of Sir Malcolm Sergeant sketches, and time crawled on, and I longed to return to the dog and the open air.

After half an hour we had only negotiated one long corridor. The house was intriguing; but the price of seeing it high. Phil and I were eyeing the main door, watching it draw nearer. We both knew what the other was thinking: escape. At all costs.

Guests wore Lauren and Chanel, staff in tailored suits. If we broke for the door we must bear in mind our tattered jeans and Phil’s distinct perfume  of ‘eau de Macaulay.’ He was regretting cuddling the dog on the way here now.

But as everyone turned to shuffle up the staircase -which was the darkest of wood and enticingly fashioned with figures at every turn-we grabbed the kids and sprinted shabbily past immaculate bemused receptionists to the door.

Oh, the light, the fresh air, the gusts of bracing wind. We flew away from that beautiful home, far from the muted tones of a guide who is probably still leading his charges around in a twilight zone-style mumbling tour of a cavernous country house.

Sometimes our words control life and death; sometimes just an absorption or boredom with a subject or place. Years ago we might have stayed to be polite.

But not any more.

Words are best used sparingly, and with passion.