“I know your temperament,” said Helen. “Personally it wouldn’t take the bloom off romance for me if I knew where my lover was. We’ll have to wait till Orestes comes, then. I really hope it will be soon. And I want you to know, Hermione, I appreciate your willingness to do what I asked—to see Pyrrhus.”

“Before I go,” said Hermione, “you might tell me—I’m awfully curious—who Idomeneus is. Father got quite excited at his name.”

“He was one of my suitors,” said Helen, “and perhaps you ought to know about him; for it’s really because of him that I’m sure you do well to see Pyrrhus. When I was married the old custom still held for the suitors not to appear in person, but to send gifts with the offer of their hand, and let the lady and her parents decide. Of course you decided on some one you knew, or knew about. Idomeneus is a very original man. He was always far ahead of his times. He came himself with his gifts, and said that if he had the good fortune to win me, no one else should have the happiness of hearing the word of assent, and no one else should have the honour of bringing me to his home. Do you know, Hermione, I was so inexperienced then that I thought him most crude to go against the proper rules for a sentimental marriage. I rejected him first of all, and sent him off alone. Then I weighed the absentee suitors, conscientiously, conventionally, and as I felt, romantically, and decided on Menelaus. Idomeneus is a strange person to this day. He has never married. But it’s because of him that I think a girl should see all the possibilities, whether suitors or not, before she gives herself. Even at the best, we overlook so much!”

IV

“All day I’ve thought of you, Adraste,” said Damastor. “You run in my head like a tune; whatever less lovely goes on round about me, I can always be silent and listen.”

“I like to hear you say so, Damastor. How wonderful you are, with a pretty speech every time we meet, and never twice the same! To me you are a picture, not music; I dream of you—dreams so lively, I almost fear the household will see what I see, and know my secret.”

“What do you see, Adraste?”

“Do you ask, my lover? … Damastor, your lips are cold! Poor boy!”

“Come farther into the shadow, Adraste—they will see us if we walk in the moonlight. I never saw such a great moon. Here, we can sit on this garden bench, and talk in peace.”

“There never was such a moon, Damastor, but the brightness is you, I think; I have come here alone, on nights like this, to see the garden turned to magic, and to think of—what we think of; but it was never so bright. If I could, I’d have it brighter still, and everybody here to see us walking in it. Our happiness is too beautiful to hide. I’m so proud of you, Damastor … Damastor, do you love me—as you said?”