The lord and lady exchange glances. Odysseus sees that the lord is unable to articulate the unfairness of the fact that Odysseus, a young man in a frayed waistcoat with unruly hair, has clearly spent time with the wealthiest Greek in London before the ball at his estate.
Part of Odysseus is thankful when Diomedes appears by his side. They will fight the inanity of the conversation together, although his dear friend (shorn head, cleanly pressed blood-red sash) takes little pleasure in subtlety, as Odysseus himself does. As if on cue, Diomedes pops a cigarette into his mouth.
“Charming party, isn’t it?”
The lord regains composure. “Tydides is here too, I see. You boys from the militia spending a little while in London, are you? Finding all the blood tiresome?”
“Oh yes. Don’t mind if I smoke, do you?” Diomedes is saying this while smoke billows, Odysseus thinks a little performatively, out his mouth.
“Pardon my friend’s manners,” Odysseus says, swirling his glass of port. Deciding to give up the pretences: “I was raised in the country. If I summer anywhere, it’s in the alehouses. Farmer's habit; I was raised with a cigarette in my mouth, and Tydides with a silver spoon in his. We both came to London and swapped, you see.”
By now, the lord and lady are incredibly unsure of how to proceed in this conversation. The lord makes excuses to leave. Diomedes puffs happily, and winks at the lady, who follows her husband, looking dazed.
“Civilities, Laertiades?”
“Oh, civilities, Tydides.”
“To be endured. I hear Tyndareus has a very pretty daughter that is being brought out into society tonight.”
In a sputtering of plumage and pearls, the ladies have assembled on one side of the hall, the men in dark silk on the other. Odysseus leans close to his friend. “You hear that, do you? Well I’ll show you one better. I’ve seen her.”
