“I merely said I wouldn’t have Pyrrhus—”

“Which do you want, Menelaus?”

“Which what?”

“It’s no use, Menelaus, you’ll have to answer me. I left this house once, and I can do it again. If I leave it this time at your own request, you can’t bring me back. I’ll stay on the one condition, that you insult me no more. Do you wish me to stay?”

“The question is rather complex,” said Menelaus. “May I think it over?”

“It is complex,” said Helen, “but it will be worse if you think it over. It’s best to make one simple decision and be done with it.”

“If you go now,” said Menelaus.

“Or if you kill me,” said Helen.

“It would be very difficult,” said Menelaus, “to explain it to people. It would seem to indicate a certain indecision.”

“Oh, you could explain it easily enough,” said Helen. “Tell them the truth. Truth conquers all things—or is it love? Truth to be equally impressive. Tell them that I loved Paris and ran off with him—deserted you—spent years in his arms—and you forgave me and took me back. Then tell them that afterwards you knew I admired Achilles, who was dead, and whom I had never seen—so of course you had to put me out or kill me, to take the stain off your honour. They’ll understand you.”

“I doubt if they will,” said Menelaus. “Paris would, or any one else who had intimate experience of your gift for putting a man in the wrong, but most people, I dare say, will always think you’re as easy to live with as you look. I’d rather put the question to you. Stay if you like, or go. If you stay, and if you won’t irritate me too much, I’ll try not to say what I think.”

“That won’t do,” said Helen, “you mustn’t think it.”

“I’ll try,” said Menelaus, “I can’t do more.”

“I don’t want any more,” said Helen. “I’ve learned to be reasonable. Now let me be quite clear about the other men. I loved Paris. That’s always been understood. I respected—even revered—Hector, but I couldn’t love him. He was the finest example I shall ever meet of a temperament I don’t like. He wasn’t a joyous person—wasn’t even before the war. That love of life we were talking of—he hadn’t a bit of it. Anything gloomy looked to him like duty. He worried over any trouble he escaped. Of course he enjoyed life more than he liked to confess. He’d say that war was tragic, and no good would come of it, and in the same breath he’d pray that his little boy might grow up to be a more famous fighter than himself. As for Achilles—don’t get excited now—if I had known him, I’m sure I should have loved him, him only, forever. We must love the best—there’s no sin in love like failing to love the best—and he was the greatest of you all. Had he been one of my suitors, and had I known enough of life then, I should have taken him. It’s not your fault nor mine, and you will be just enough to admit that I think of him only what the world thinks. I hope you will do me the justice also to recognise that I want his son, not for myself, but for my daughter.”