“I wonder what has happened between them,” said Menelaus. “They used to be friends, and Charitas is the kind of woman I like to have Helen associated with—very steady, sensible, thoroughly reliable.”

“She never told me her opinion of Charitas,” said the gate-keeper, “but I doubt if she thinks her either sensible or reliable.”

“What does she think her?”

“She said once that Charitas was respectable.”

“At least!” said Menelaus.

“She meant it as no compliment,” said Eteoneus. “She meant that Charitas sticks to the conventions.”

“That’s compliment enough, these days,” said Menelaus. “What on earth possesses that woman!”

“Which one?”

“My wife.”

“Well, that’s about the same thing as I asked you when you came home,” said Eteoneus, “and you were angry with me. Now, if you will tell me how to—”

“We’ve wandered from the subject,” said Menelaus. “You’ve answered the first complaint against you. How about those sarcastic remarks?”

“I made them,” said Eteoneus. “The woman refused to go away. She wanted to get at the scandal, from me if nobody else would talk to her. I said good day several times, in several fairly polite forms, but she stuck like a leach, and what with trying not to give information, and what with the annoyance of being questioned, I dare say I answered her a bit sharply.”

“Do you remember anything you said?”

“I don’t know that I do. I admit I felt snappish … Oh, yes, she wanted to know whether Agamemnon didn’t attack Clytemnestra and whether Clytemnestra didn’t kill him in self-defence. I remember I said I’d submit the question to Helen as soon as she came in; she would know if her sister’s husband tried to kill her and couldn’t, or if the lady just killed her husband spontaneously. Something like that. I recall how annoyed Charitas looked.”

“It does sound impertinent, and I’m sure it’s softer than what you actually said.”

“Menelaus, would you think better of my behaviour if I gossiped with the neighbours about you and your relatives? What I think of Clytemnestra and what I think of your wife, is my private opinion—I believe you suggested as much; to talk of such things to Charitas is strictly none of my business. She wanted gossip; I couldn’t get rid of her. Of course she’d be dissatisfied with my most diplomatic replies. I could have avoided her displeasure only by giving her the news. I hope you told her husband that his wife had little to do, inquiring into your affairs through your servants? I begin to think Helen was generous when she called her respectable!”

“Now, about the third complaint,” said Menelaus. “I’d like to get on with this—there’s something else we must talk of. Did you call her the meanest woman you’d met?”