“I’ll have to go back to pick up the thread,” said Eteoneus. “Oh, yes. We talked it over, of course, with the men on the ship, and they answered as though we were demented; even to them who have lived through Troy and its miseries, Helen seems altogether admirable. We try to get a clue from you, but though you are at times, if I may judge, somewhat embarrassed, and though you are irritable now that I have ventured to raise the question, you too seem to accept Helen as the unshaken authority and inspiration of your home. And here’s where Orestes comes in. I used to believe Hermione looked at things in the old fashion. She was rather pathetic, I thought, circulating stories about her absent mother, stories which if we were deceived by them would make Helen out quite innocent, rather a victim than—well, we’ll leave it there. I admired the daughter’s loyalty, though it took a fantastic form, and I was sure, of course, she didn’t believe her own tales. But now Orestes has put ideas into her head which once would have troubled you. I had a talk with her one day about him—told her what was said about Clytemnestra and Ægisthus, and warned her against compromising herself with that branch of the family. If you’ll believe it, she actually defended Clytemnestra. I imagine she had the argument from Orestes. Though her aunt wasn’t doing right, she said, Agamemnon hadn’t done right, either; he asked her to send their youngest daughter, pretending he had arranged a marriage with Achilles, and when the delighted mother got her ready, and safe to Aulis, he killed the child as a sacrifice to the winds, so that the fleet might sail. After that, Hermione asked, what loyalty did Clytemnestra owe to Agamemnon? And I couldn’t think of the reply I wanted. I did say that Clytemnestra’s conduct wasn’t sanctioned by religion, but sacrifice was. She laughed at me. There you are, Menelaus! I call that dangerous. If you hadn’t changed, you’d thank me for putting you on your guard.”

“Now that you’ve got to the point at last,” said Menelaus, “I don’t mind telling you I have indeed changed. I’m not afraid of new ideas as I once was, and as you still are. We’ve been away a long time, we’ve seen many countries and other people, and we must have broadened. Before I went I wasn’t interested, for example, in Egypt, but it’s a remarkable country, and the people know a lot more than we do. And we’ve been through the war, you should remember. Nothing can be quite the same again. When your emotions have been stretched in unusual directions for a protracted period, you discover that your ideas have changed, and not necessarily for the worse. Those who go to war seem to have more new ideas than they who stay at home. I won’t say I like these ideas of Orestes, but they don’t scare me. Before I went to Troy, if you had told me that Achilles would give back Hector’s body to be buried by his relatives, and would stop the war for twelve days so that the funeral would not be interrupted, I shouldn’t have believed you, but that’s what he did. When Helen went off with Paris, I followed to kill them both. Now here she is home with me again. You can’t get over it. It’s the one new idea you’ve had in twenty years—your surprise that my wife is at home and not in the tomb. I’m rather surprised myself, but not so much as you are. I can’t explain it—I can only say, with you, our ideas change.”