“You won’t get it from me,” said Helen; “our experience hasn’t been of the same order, and our ideas probably won’t be. But here is my account of my innocence. I am used to having men fall in love with me, but I never wanted them to, and I never flirted with a man in my life. I simply existed; that was enough. And I never wished to love. To marry—yes; I was glad to marry Menelaus, but I had some of your prudent conviction that marriage is easier to arrange and carry through than love is. Against my will I fell in love with Paris. It just happened to me, and I don’t consider myself responsible. But I could be sincere—that at least was in my choice, whatever else was fate. Since love had befallen me, I saw it through to the end. Charitas, sincerity was the one virtue I salvaged out of the madness, and I kept a little intelligence, too—I had enough wit to know that the end would be bad. I was deserting my child; what would happen to her character, growing up alone, and with such an example? When we reached Troy, the Trojans, I was sure, would repudiate Paris and me, else there would be war. But as it turned out, the Trojans did nothing of the sort. They welcomed me. When the war was going the wrong way for them, they said more than once that it was worth it, just to have me with them. Charitas, a woman who does a wrong she feels she cannot help, yet expects to suffer for it, and is ready to pay the penalty as though it were altogether her fault—such a woman, in my opinion, is moral far above the average. By your own standards, I think—certainly by mine—the Trojans lost their sense of moral consequences. Hermione’s story would save their reputations, but it does less than justice to mine. I am proud of my willingness to pay for what others suffered from my misfortune. Without that moral clarity, I could have no peace of mind. And I think Menelaus, like the Trojans, showed that he was ethically confused. From the beginning of the siege, I thought our people would win, and that Menelaus would kill me. But instead he brought me home, as you see. Even the gods, it might be said, were delinquent, not to annihilate me—but perhaps I’m to suffer exquisitely now through my neglected daughter, who has grown up to have a respectable and dishonest imagination. Had I been here, I should have taught her to love the truth.”

“Well, with the facts this way, Helen,” said Charitas, “I can’t understand Menelaus any more than I can you. I’d have sworn he’d be insane for revenge. He was always such a devoted husband.”

“He was,” said Helen, “he came for me with a knife or a sword or something. I hardly noticed; it made no difference to me. I expected it, and made no attempt to escape. I even made it easy for him, drew my robe away from my heart—so.”