“Hermione must get over thinking that people have betrayed her when they only disagree with her. Do you think you and she can get along, after all this excitement has died down?”

“Of course we can—the excitement, as you call it, has been no aid to our love.”

“Oh, don’t you think so?” said Helen. “Hermione wants to help you. You’ve got to keep on needing help.”

“I think you misunderstand our relation,” said Orestes. “We are born companions. I was glad to marry her.”

“Poor boy, was that all?”

“I mean, I hoped we could marry soon, but I saw no prospect of giving her the home she deserves—they won’t let me go back to my father’s house. After that ghastly quarrel with Pyrrhus, I realised at once that Hermione would be compromised in the scandal if she were not my wife. In fact, it was her usual good sense that saw the point first, but as soon as she urged it, I knew she was right, and I was glad for her sake to marry without delay—though, of course, it wasn’t the moment you’d choose for a wedding.”

“She’s very much like Clytemnestra,” said Helen.

“You don’t know how I hate to hear you say that!” said Orestes.

“I beg your pardon!” said Helen. “It was worse than tactless.”

“The trouble is,” said Orestes, “I’ve noticed the resemblance myself, and at a most unfortunate moment. When I struck Pyrrhus down she was glad. I never saw such a look on another face—but one. It has haunted me to so painful a degree that I wonder whether my mind has not been ruined by what I’ve gone through. If I’m to see my mother and my father and Pyrrhus in the faces of those about me—if all this blood is going to poison the least taste of happiness—Oh, you can’t guess how horrible it is! And I can’t talk to Hermione about it, because it concerns her, and besides, she wouldn’t entirely understand; she doesn’t seem to have any misgivings about what she does. You’re the one person to whom I’ve spoken, and when I came I had no idea of confiding such a thing to you.”