“I’m sorry for that,” said Helen. “Such faithful service as you have given, ought to leave you, at your years, with a quiet conscience.”

“Oh, nothing the matter with my conscience. It’s not my own wrong-doing I have to worry about.”

“Eteoneus,” said Menelaus, “what brought you here? What do you wish with me?”

“One moment, Menelaus,” said Helen. “Do I understand that Eteoneus is troubled by the wrongs others have done?”

“That’s it exactly,” said Eteoneus.

“You mean, wrongs that people have done to you personally?” said Helen. “Of course I don’t want to seem prying into your affairs.”

“No offence at all,” said Eteoneus. “No, not wrongs done to me personally.”

“Well,” said Helen, “when you come to think of it, there are a great number of wrongs in the world done by others, to others than ourselves. What a passion for grief you must have, Eteoneus, to borrow all that trouble!”

“Eteoneus,” said Menelaus, “I insist on knowing what—”

“I beg your pardon, Menelaus,” said Helen. “I did not realise that my talking to Eteoneus was annoying you.”

“Not at all,” said Menelaus. “Talk to him as much as you like—at another time. Now I wish to hear his errand.”

“It’s merely a bit of news,” said Eteoneus, “but there was a time when you would have been glad to hear it.”

“You don’t mean that Pyrrhus has declined the invitation?”

“He hasn’t received it yet. No, my news has to do with your brother.”

“Is he back?”

“He is,” said Eteoneus. “The news has just come that he’s home again, safe and in the usual health. The man who told me—he passed through here about an hour ago—actually saw him draw up with his chariots before his own door, with all the baggage and the prizes—and with Cassandra, his handsome slave. The man said Cassandra is very beautiful.”

“She is said to be,” replied Menelaus. “What happened next?”

“Nothing. They all went into the house. After the doors were closed the crowd waited a while, of course, and then went about their business. The man continued his journey.”

“I’d like to know what went on behind those doors,” said Menelaus.

“So should I,” said Eteoneus, “but the man apparently missed the significance of the whole episode. He’s only a casual trader, and he hadn’t heard of Clytemnestra’s conduct. He was quite surprised when I told him; he deeply regrets now that he came away just—as you might say—at the moment of greatest possibilities.”

“Didn’t he see Clytemnestra at all?” said Menelaus.

“Oh, yes, she came out to meet Agamemnon, and led him into the house, the man said. She greeted Cassandra, too, very considerately.”

“She did, did she?” said Menelaus. “And was Ægisthus doing the honours too?”

“The man didn’t see him—nor even hear of him,” said the gate-keeper. “That’s because he passed through the place so hurriedly.”

“Eteoneus,” said Menelaus, “when you first told me about Clytemnestra and Ægisthus, I thought the whole rumour might very well be sheer fiction, and I said so. Now I wonder whether my suggestion hasn’t been proved sound! If Ægisthus were master in the house, Clytemnestra wouldn’t have welcomed Agamemnon home in that dutiful fashion. If there had been a scandal, your trader would have heard of it, no matter how short a time he stayed.”