"You will go as Menelaus the Greek," said I.
"I as Menelaus the Greek?" The smile became a little grim.
"Yes, as Menelaus; and I will go as Paris." I doubt not that my voice
showed a good deal of self-scorn at the moment; but there was a kind of
luxury in self-abasement before him. "Your wife, I know, intends to go as
Helen of Troy. It is all mumming. Let it stand so, as Menelaus and Helen
and Paris before there was any Trojan war, and as if there never could be
any--as if Paris went back discomfited, and the other two were
reconciled."
His voice was low and broken. "I know you exaggerate matters, and condemn
yourself beyond reason," he replied. "I will do as you say. But, Dr.
Marmion, it will not be all mumming, as you shall see."
A strange look came upon his face at this. I could not construe it; and,
after a few words of explanation regarding his transference to the
forward part of the ship, I left him. I found the purser, made the
necessary arrangements for him, and then sought my cabin, humbled in many
ways. I went troubled to bed. After a long wakefulness, I dozed away into
that disturbed vestibule of sleep where the world's happenings mingle
with the visions of unconsciousness.
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