"Tell me," he looked at Bacchus, "what is portrayed, and how so
portrayed?"
He listened quietly to the exposition of the sylvan scene, the
merry dance of the nymphs, the greens and browns and tone colors
that formed the hues.
"And you," turning to Vulcan, "describe to me this picture."
Vulcan closed his eyes and was silent. Then he spoke slowly,
almost as in a trance. "This is the picture of a maiden, her
golden hair lighted by a single beam filtered through the forest
foliage. All else is only background, merely there that she
might display her beauty. It is but a vision, unreal, of what
might be. Yes, it is only the picture of a maiden."
"Could each of you supply me with a picture similar in nature
that I might compare?"
Neither could respond to his request.
"Well, without more evidence I find that I cannot judge for one
or the other. Let me give further thought to the matter. Eh,
come back in 2 days. Zeus will be here, he'll resolve the
problem quickly."
"My Lord, we are both to leave this edifice this very day. Zeus
has so decreed. He was unhappy with our problem, and requested
that we bring it to your attention."
Demo frowned. To my attention!
"It's time for my ambrosia. Return when the sun begins its
descent. I'll give you and answer then.
He mused. He thought. He worried. He ate.
Delicious, this ambrosia. Not equivalent to his Mother's
cooking. But certainly good enough for Zeus.
He carved the food carefully, munching on each savory bite.
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