Poor cousins are for mending, Penelope finds; whether that is the fabrics Helen apologetically rips while on her rambles, or the delicate diplomatic negotiations Clytemnestra shreds with a sharp word at dinner. At first her uncle's proclamation to invite Helen's suitors to Sparta at once seems only one more command to do so, to smile and sigh and comfort those rejected, to agree with their aggrieved assessment as to Helen's perversity and general personality, to offer herself up as pale replacement in the marriage bed.

"Pity," grunts the Ithacan prince she meets at dinner that first night, "I do so hate the waste of a good mind;" and Penelope, startled, thinks for the first time that she might agree.