“This is terrible!” groaned Menelaus. “But after all it may be only gossip. Women so beautiful as those sisters pay for their gift in the malicious rumour of envy. Really, Eteoneus, I don’t wonder that Orestes was angry.”

“I don’t wonder myself,” said Eteoneus, “but angry or not, he denied nothing. How could he? These rumours that spread about beautiful women are often malicious or envious, as you say, but they’re rarely exaggerated.”

“That’s digression we needn’t discuss,” said Menelaus. “So Orestes went home? Frankly, Eteoneus, I should like to hear his side of this story.”

“You may, easily enough,” said the gate-keeper, “for he’s been here at regular intervals, and unless his habits change he’s due in a day or so.”

“I thought you didn’t let him in?”

“I didn’t, but he never asked permission again—he just came in. I ought to add that he came always to see Hermione, and she arranged it somehow, I never knew just how. She doesn’t like me much more than he does.”

“I can’t believe anything scandalous of my daughter,” said Menelaus, “and you made a grave error in introducing the idea. I have an impulse to question your judgment as to these other reports. Of course I’ve been away a long time and she’s now quite grown up, but her character seems to me essentially unchanged. I’ve always thought her propriety itself.”

“So do I, so do I,” said Eteoneus, “and when it comes to the conventions, Orestes is rather strait-laced. It often happens that way, I’ve noticed—the children go in for correct behaviour. Especially when they are not so good-looking.”

“My daughter is said to resemble me,” said Menelaus, “and I believe she and I understand each other. But if you agree that their meetings were entirely proper, what on earth are you talking about? Why didn’t you let him in, in the first place? They were intended for each other, before our family life was upset; now that we’ve returned, I dare say they’ll be married shortly, if they wish to be.”

“Menelaus,” said Eteoneus, “it’s a difficult thing to explain to one who hasn’t followed my profession. I’m a family gate-keeper, and the sense of responsibility makes me alert to what I let in. When I opened the gate to Paris, I had a presentiment that love was entering, and instinct told me that the entrance of a great passion would disturb your home. You did not feel the danger. Now Orestes, I’m quite sure, brings with him some new ideas. If you realised what it would mean to your house, to let in new ideas, you’d be on your guard.”

“Eteoneus,” said Menelaus, “I’ve heard a good deal of oratory since I left home, and though I’m no critic in such matters, I’ve become sensitive to possible innuendo in the spoken word. Much of what you have said sounds to me like diplomatic insult.”

“I may have overstepped my intention,” said the gate-keeper, “but I did want to rouse you to a problem which only you can solve. We are all loyal to you but we don’t know where we stand. It used to be that a wife who deserted her husband and children was in disgrace, if possible was punished. You thought that way when you sailed for Troy. We at home here have prepared all these years to cheer your lonely grief as well as we might, if ever you came back to your—”