“Must one live, Damastor—is that the thing of first importance? How we live, I’d rather say. I think the love of life must have in it a kind of recklessness, a determination not to pay too high for mere existence—not to pay with your soul. My way would be to go hand in hand with you now, and tell them all about it. First we’d find Helen and tell her, then we’d go to your people; and if they disowned us, as you expect, then we’d literally walk down the road together till something happened to us—some good fortune or perhaps some bad. That would be the sincere and fine thing to do, I’m sure. Wouldn’t you, in your heart, be happy to do that with me? Damastor, will you do it now—this very hour?”

“What a mad idea, Adraste!—to go off that way, like tramps, with you—you couldn’t stand it; you’d die before we had gone far!”

“I shall die here. But I’d rather die that way, with the man I thought I gave myself to. Damastor, I know to-night that I have lost you!”

“I’ll never leave you, Adraste! To-night you are full of gloomy thoughts and fears, but there’s no reason for them, except that you aren’t quite yourself. You’ll wake up rested to-morrow, and remember what we have said, and all the grim things you said to me, and you’ll laugh at your worries. I shall always love you, Adraste; I love you absolutely. I’ll make you proud of me yet, when the right moment comes to speak, and you see at last that I was right … Don’t go—we have lost the hour talking of these stupid matters. I thought we were to be together, just to be happy, and here we’ve been arguing.”

“Will you walk to the house with me, Damastor, or would you prefer that I go back alone? Very probably, Helen will see us, or Menelaus, or Hermione.”

V

“Now that I’ve sent for him,” said Menelaus, “I want to tell you one thing. I was wrong, and all that, but you had no right to thrash out the question as you did, in the presence of our child. There can’t be any discipline in a house where that sort of wrangling goes on in public. I detest family disputes above all things, and the worst possible is between parents with their own children listening.”

“I regret it too,” said Helen, “but it seemed better than to accept without protest the insult you laid on me before my daughter. You have a curious point of view, Menelaus. You brought me home, it seems, for the satisfaction of saying unspeakable things during the rest of my life, and you appear to think, for some reason, that I will put up with it. You seem to think it is good for your child and your household to hear such discourtesy from your lips. If I am not mistaken, you even think it is good for your own character. Every time you insult me, you give the impression of feeling morally elevated.”