“For the Most Beautiful!”
—nothing more.
“What a handsome present somebody has sent me!” said Juno, holding out her hand for the apple.
“Sent you?” asked Diana. “What an odd mistake, to be sure! Don’t you see it is for the most beautiful? I will thank you to hand me what is so clearly intended for Me.”
“You seem to forget I am present!” said Vesta, making a snatch at the apple.
“Not at all!” said Ceres; “only I happen to be here, too. And who doubts that where I am there is the most beautiful?”
“Except where I am,” said Proserpine.
“What folly is all this!” said Minerva, the wise. “Wisdom is the only true beauty; and everybody knows that I am the wisest of you all.”
“But it’s for the most beautiful!” said Venus. “The idea of its being for anybody but Me!”
Then every nymph and goddess present, and even every woman, put in her claim, until from claiming and disputing it grew to arguing and wrangling and downright quarreling: insults flew about, until the merriment grew into an angry din, the like of which had never been heard. But as it became clear that it was impossible for everybody to be the most beautiful, the claimants gradually settled down into three parties—some taking the side of Venus, others of Juno, others of Minerva.