e vital than his
own.

To-morrow, then, being Saturday, he would go up to town; and on Monday
he would return to his ambiguous post.

He had thought it out.

CHAPTER XVII

"There's a lot of rot," said Mr. Rickman, "talked about Greek tragedy.
But really, if you come to think of it, it's only in Sophocles you get
the tragedy of Fate. There isn't any such thing in AEschylus, you
know."

He had gone up to acquaint Miss Harden with his decision and had been
led off into this hopeful track by the seductions that still lurked in
the Euripides.

"There's Nemesis, which is the same thing," said she.

"Not at all the same thing. Nemesis is simply the horrid jealousy of
the gods; and the responsibility lies with the person who provokes
them, whether it's Prometheus, or Agamemnon, or Agamemnon's great
great grandfather. It's the tragedy of human responsibility, the most
brutal tragedy of all. All these people are crumpled up with it, they
go about tearing their hair over it, and howling out [Greek: drasanti
pathein]. There isn't any Fate in that, you know. Is there?"

He did not wait for an answer.

"In Sophocles now, it's all the other way about. His people aren't
responsible in the least. They're just a thundering lot of lunatics.
They go knocking their poor heads against the divine law, and trying
to see which is the hardest, till they end by breaking both. There's
no question of paying for the damage. It's pure Fate."

"Well--and Euripides?"

"Oh, Euripides goes on another tack altogether. There aren't any laws
to break, yet everybody's miserable all round, and nobody's
responsible. It's [Greek: to pathonti pathein]. They suffer because
they suffer, and there's an end of it. And it's the end of Fate in
Greek tragedy. I know this isn't the orthodox view of it."

He paused, a little out of breath, for he had talked as usual against
time, leaving behind him a luminous trail of ideas struck out
furiously as he rushed along. His excitement was of the strong-winged
kind that carried him triumphantly over all obstacles, even the
barrier of the aitch.

Was she listening?

She was; but as she listened she looked down, and her fingers played
with the slender gold chain that went twice round her throat and fell
among the laces of her gown. On her mouth there was the same smile he
had seen when he first saw her; he took it for a smile of innermost
amusement. It didn't lurk; there was nothing underhand about it.