Hijinks, hm? No, he's just watching now. His gaze moves from Degas to the stained glass which overhang the altars; a goddess for each season. A part of him wants to sneer at the banality of it all, the randomness of nature put on a pedestal it does not deserve -- yet can he really deny that a part of him is drawn to the third image, with its icons of drawing compass and slide rule? That looking at it doesn't pluck at the strings of his soul?

"What are their names?" he finally asks, voice a mere pinprick in the silence.