On the right side of the stage were three purple-covered couches. On one
of them sat Titianus, the prefect, who, like the artists, used his
pencil; with him was his wife Julia. On another reclined Verus, at full
length, and as usual, crowned with roses; the third was for Plutarch, but
was unoccupied. The praetor did not hesitate to interrupt any speaker,
as though he were the host of the entertainment, and many of his remarks
were followed by loud applause, or approving laughter.

The face and figure of the wealthy Plutarch, which could never be
forgotten, were not altogether strange to Arsinoe, for, a few days
previously he had shown himself for the first time in many years in his
papyrus factory, with an architect to settle with him how the courts and
rooms could best be cleaned and decorated for the reception of the
Emperor; and on this occasion he had gone into the room where she worked
and had pinched her cheek with a few roguish and flattering words.

There he was, walking across the stage. He was an old man, said to be
about seventy years of age, his legs were half-paralyzed, and they
nevertheless moved with a series of incessant and rapid but unvoluntary
jerks under his heavy bowed body, and he was supported on either hand by
a tall young fellow. His nobly-formed head, must have been in his youth,
of extraordinary beauty. Now his head was covered by a wig of long brown
hair, his eyebrows and lashes were darkly dyed, his cheeks daubed with
red and white paint, which gave his countenance a fixed expression, as if
he had been stricken in the very act of smiling. On his curls he wore a
wreath of rare flowers in long racemes. An abundance of red and white
roses stuck out from the front folds of his ample toga, and were held in
their place by gold brooches, sparkling with precious stones of large
size. The hems of his mantle were all edged with rose-buds, and each was
fastened in with an emerald that shone like some bright insect. The