Clytemnestra's sinister smiles always made Ægisthus feel exactly as if something was disagreeing with him—so he stayed.
By this time the populace had also realised the turn affairs had taken, but they very sensibly determined that it was their plain duty to persevere with the merriment. They were, as has been mentioned before, a simple and affectionate people, and fond of their king; so, as his return would be even more beneficial to trade than the betrothal, they rejoiced on, and there was nothing in the least strained or hollow in their revelry.
And presently there was a fresh stir in the crowd, and then a rumbling of wheels as the covered chariot from the station rolled, amidst faint cheering, up to the palace gates, and was saluted by the one aged sentinel who stood on guard.
'It is Agamemnon,' gasped the Queen; 'he has come already—he must not find me unprepared. I will go within.'
She had just time to retire hastily, followed by Ægisthus, before a short stout man in faded regimentals and a cocked hat with a moulting plume descended from the vehicle.
The Chorus, finding it left to them to do the honours, advanced in a row, singing the ode of welcome, which they had had in rehearsal ever since the first year of the war.
'O King,' they chanted in their cracked old trebles, 'offspring of Atreus, and sacker of Troy!'
'Will you kindly count the boxes?' interrupted the monarch, who hated sentiment; 'there should be four—a tin cocked-hat box, two camel-hair trunks, and a carpet bag.'
But a Greek chorus was not easily suppressed, and they broke out again all together, 'Nay, but with bursting hearts would we bid thee thrice hail!'
'Once is ample, thank you,' said the King, with regal politeness; 'and I should be really distressed if any of you were to burst on my account. Has anybody such a thing as half a drachma about him?'