“Never mind her,” said Minerva; “she doesn’t count for much here. Of course, you know the gentleman opposite with the lyre—my brother, Apollo, the poet.”
“Is he? I say,” cried Joe, across the table, “Mr Apollo, do you know anything that rhymes with ‘catsup’?”
Apollo smiled rather foolishly, and said he fancied it was not in the rhyming dictionary; at least, he never had to use the word in his day.
Joe’s opinion of a poet who could not rhyme any word in the language fell considerably.
“He means well, does Polly,” said Minerva, apologetically; “but he never had a public-school education, you know.”
Magnus meanwhile was making himself agreeable to his fair neighbour.
“I say,” said he, in the midst of his fourth helping of ambrosia, “which is the fellow who once kicked the other fellow downstairs?”
Venus laughed immoderately.
“The other fellow is my husband, the poor dear who made room for you just now. The fellow that kicked him down is Jupiter—there!”
“Good old Jupiter!” said Magnus. “I’d like to see you do it again. Did you do it with a place-kick, or a drop, or a punt?”