‘Well, I must own,’ said the aedile Pansa, ’that your house, though scarcely larger than a case for one’s fibulae, is a gem of its kind.  How beautifully painted is that parting of Achilles and Briseis!—­what a style!—­what heads!—­what a-hem!’

‘Praise from Pansa is indeed valuable on such subjects,’ said Clodius, gravely.  ’Why, the paintings on his walls!—­Ah! there is, indeed, the hand of a Zeuxis!’

‘You flatter me, my Clodius; indeed you do,’ quoth the aedile, who was celebrated through Pompeii for having the worst paintings in the world; for he was patriotic, and patronized none but Pompeians.  ’You flatter me; but there is something pretty—­AEdepol, yes—­in the colors, to say nothing of the design—­and then for the kitchen, my friends—­ah! that was all my fancy.’

‘What is the design?’ said Glaucus.  ’I have not yet seen your kitchen, though I have often witnessed the excellence of its cheer.’

’A cook, my Athenian—­a cook sacrificing the trophies of his skill on the altar of Vesta, with a beautiful muraena (taken from the life) on a spit at a distance—­there is some invention there!’

At that instant the slaves appeared, bearing a tray covered with the first preparative initia of the feast.  Amidst delicious figs, fresh herbs strewed with snow, anchovies, and eggs, were ranged small cups of diluted wine sparingly mixed with honey.  As these were placed on the table, young slaves bore round to each of the five guests (for there were no more) the silver basin of perfumed water, and napkins edged with a purple fringe.  But the aedile ostentatiously drew forth his own napkin, which was not, indeed, of so fine a linen, but in which the fringe was twice as broad, and wiped his hands with the parade of a man who felt he was calling for admiration.

‘A splendid nappa that of yours,’ said Clodius; ’why, the fringe is as broad as a girdle!’

’A trifle, my Clodius:  a trifle!  They tell me this stripe is the latest fashion at Rome; but Glaucus attends to these things more than I.’

‘Be propitious, O Bacchus!’ said Glaucus, inclining reverentially to a beautiful image of the god placed in the centre of the table, at the corners of which stood the Lares and the salt-holders.  The guests followed the prayer, and then, sprinkling the wine on the table, they performed the wonted libation.

This over, the convivialists reclined themselves on the couches, and the business of the hour commenced.

‘May this cup be my last!’ said the young Sallust, as the table, cleared of its first stimulants, was now loaded with the substantial part of the entertainment, and the ministering slave poured forth to him a brimming cyathus—­’May this cup be my last, but it is the best wine I have drunk at Pompeii!’

‘Bring hither the amphora,’ said Glaucus, ’and read its date and its character.’

The slave hastened to inform the party that the scroll fastened to the cork betokened its birth from Chios, and its age a ripe fifty years.