The only color in the picture was to the left of the tank and close to it, where there had been set a big armchair upholstered in blue tapestry. In it sat a tall, fair-haired, curly-headed lad, with merry blue eyes. He wore a robe of pale green, the green of young onion tops. Against that green the red of Brinnaria’s gown showed strident and glary, for Brinnaria was sitting on his lap. His arms were round her waist, hers about his neck. She was slowly swinging her blue-shod feet rhythmically and was kissing the lad audibly and repeatedly. As her elders stood still, petrified, mute and motionless with amazement, she imprinted a loud smack on the lad’s lips, laid her cheek roguishly to his and peered archly at them, saying: “Glad to see you again, Pulfennius; what do you think of me for a daughter-in-law?” “I do not think of you for a daughter-in-law,” Pulfennius snarled furiously. He turned angrily to Brinnarius. “What does this mean?” he queried. His host echoed him. “Brinnaria!” he called, imperatively. “What does this mean?” “Mean?” she repeated. “It means that I am making the most of Almo while I can. I love Almo; I’ve promised to forget him, to be a good wife to Calvaster, and of course I’m going to keep my word. From the moment I’m married to Calvaster I’ll never so much as look at Almo, let alone touch him. So I’m touching him all I can while I have the chance.” She paused, kissed Almo twice, lingeringly and loudly, and looked up again. “How’s that for kissing, Calvaster?” she chirped. “Don’t you wish it was you?” “Come, son!” Pulfennius spluttered, “let us be gone! This is no place for us. We are being mocked and insulted.” “Nonsense, Pulfennius!” his host exclaimed. “Can’t you see that I had no part in this, that the minx devised it all by herself expressly to thwart me? Don’t let her have the satisfaction of outmanoeuvering both of us. Don’t let a mere prank of a child spoil all our arrangements. She’ll be a good wife as she says.” “A good wife!” Pulfennius snorted. “I much doubt whether she can now ever be a good wife to any man. I’m sure she’ll never be a wife to my son. You’d never convince me that she’s fit to be my son’s wife. Make her a Vestal, indeed! She a Vestal? She’s much more likely to be something very different!” “Do you mean to insinuate--” his host began. “I mean to insinuate anything and everything appropriate to her wanton behavior,” Pulfennius raged. The two men glared at each other in a silence through which could be heard the cooing of the doves, the trickle of the two fountains, Brinnaria’s low chuckle and the faint lisping sound of three distinct kisses. “I beg your pardon!” spoke a voice behind them. The four looked around. “What brings you here, Segontius?” Brinnarius asked.