“It’s no use speaking to my husband,” said Juno, “he can’t hear; and if he could, he’s too ignorant to understand. He’s getting old.”
“You must be getting on yourself,” said Magnus. “I remember hearing my grandfather say he knew you very well when he was a boy.”
Juno bridled up angrily at this, which was the signal for a round of laughter from every one else, and a scene might have ensued had not Apollo at the moment struck up his lyre and drowned everybody’s voice. He wasn’t a particularly good player, and his instrument was of a cheap make. But the noise served to keep the peace, which was all that was ever wanted.
Presently the meal ended, and the two boys were very glad to get up and stretch their legs. After the heavy supper they had had, they felt bound to be moderately civil; and some of the ladies and gentlemen—especially the former—made themselves agreeable enough. But they could not get on at all with some of the men. Mars, the fellow in armour, was one of these. He was a horribly conceited snob, they agreed, and only wore his armour because it was a new suit, and he thought he looked well in it.
“Well, my little men,” said he, grandly, as they came up, “so you have come to see the great god of war? I will not hurt you. Try to lift my spear. It weighs two hundredweight and some odd pounds. You have heard, no doubt, of some of my achievements?”
“Oh yes,” said Magnus minor; “you were the chap that got a hiding outside Troy from Diomed, and yelled enough to bring the roof down.”
“Ha, ha! Good old Diomed!” said Joe.
Mars turned red and white with anger, and said that if it were not too much trouble he would like to knock their two impudent heads together, at which they and every one else laughed all the more.
“You boys,” said Venus, coming up opportunely at this point, “here is a friend I know you will like to meet. He’s just the sort of person boys admire. He’s not one of our regular party, you know; but we ask him in to dessert now and then—don’t we, Hercules?”
“How do you do?” said Magnus, holding out his hand to a great stout gentleman, who wore a rug over his shoulders and carried a club in his hand. “Done all your jobs—swabbed out those stables yet?”