‘You!’ said the stately warrior, scanning the small form of the poet with ineffable disdain.  ‘In what legion have you served?’

‘You may see my spoils, my exuviae, in the forum itself,’ returned the poet, with a significant glance at the women.  ’I have been among the tent-companions, the contubernales, of the great Mantuan himself.’

’I know no general from Mantua, said the warrior, gravely.  ’What campaign have you served?’

‘That of Helicon.’

‘I never heard of it.’

‘Nay, Vespius, he does but joke,’ said Julia, laughing.

‘Joke!  By Mars, am I a man to be joked!’

‘Yes; Mars himself was in love with the mother of jokes,’ said the poet, a little alarmed.  ’Know, then, O Vespius! that I am the poet Fulvius.  It is I who make warriors immortal!’

‘The gods forbid!’ whispered Sallust to Julia.  ’If Vespius were made immortal, what a specimen of tiresome braggadocio would be transmitted to posterity!’

The soldier looked puzzled; when, to the infinite relief of himself and his companions, the signal for the feast was given.

As we have already witnessed at the house of Glaucus the ordinary routine of a Pompeian entertainment, the reader is spared any second detail of the courses, and the manner in which they were introduced.

Diomed, who was rather ceremonious, had appointed a nomenclator, or appointer of places to each guest.

The reader understands that the festive board was composed of three tables; one at the centre, and one at each wing.  It was only at the outer side of these tables that the guests reclined; the inner space was left untenanted, for the greater convenience of the waiters or ministri.  The extreme corner of one of the wings was appropriated to Julia as the lady of the feast; that next her, to Diomed.  At one corner of the centre table was placed the aedile; at the opposite corner, the Roman senator—­these were the posts of honour.  The other guests were arranged, so that the young (gentleman or lady) should sit next each other, and the more advanced in years be similarly matched.  An agreeable provision enough, but one which must often have offended those who wished to be thought still young.

The chair of Ione was next to the couch of Glaucus.  The seats were veneered with tortoiseshell, and covered with quilts stuffed with feathers, and ornamented with costly embroideries.  The modern ornaments of epergne or plateau were supplied by images of the gods, wrought in bronze, ivory, and silver.  The sacred salt-cellar and the familiar Lares were not forgotten.  Over the table and the seats a rich canopy was suspended from the ceiling.  At each corner of the table were lofty candelabra—­for though it was early noon, the room was darkened—­while from tripods, placed in different parts of the room, distilled the odor of myrrh and frankincense; and upon the abacus, or sideboard, large vases and various ornaments of silver were ranged, much with the same ostentation (but with more than the same taste) that we find displayed at a modern feast.