Archie sat up, and began to place his dolls while Effie read. He was so expert in manipulating his puppets that he made them actually represent the piece, changing the groups every moment, while Effie, dropping the manuscript, folded her arms and recited the play, watching Armorel's face. This was quite another kind of critic. It was such a critic as the playwright loves when he sits in his box and watches the people in the house--a face which is easily moved to laughter or to tears, which catches the points and feels the story. There are thousands of such faces in every theatre every night. It is for them that the play is written, and not for the critic, who comes to show his superiority by picking out faults and watching for slips. For two hours, not pausing for the division of the acts, Effie went on, her soft voice rising and falling, the passion indicated but repressed; and Archie watched, and moved his groups, and the audience of one sat motionless but not unmoved. 'What?' she cried, springing to her feet and clasping her hands. It is easy for this fine gesture to become theatrical and unreal, but Armorel was never unreal. 'He dared to call this splendid play--this glorious play--oh, this beautiful, sweet, and noble play!'--here Archie's eyes began to fill, and his lips to quiver: he was but a young dramatist, and of praise he had as yet had none--'he dared to call this worthless?' 'He said it was utterly worthless,' said Effie. 'He said,' Archie added, 'that the language was wholly unfitted for the stage. And then--then--after he'd said that, he offered to give me fifty pounds for it.' 'Fifty pounds for a play quite worthless?' 'On the condition that he was to bring it out himself if he pleased, under his own name.' 'Oh! but this is monstrous! Can there be,' asked Armorel, thinking of the pictures, 'two such men in London?' 'If I would let him call it his own! He wants to take my play--mine--to do what he likes with it--to bring it out as if it was his own! Never! Never! I would rather starve first.' 'What did you tell him?' 'He said that he would wait for an answer. I have sent him none as yet.' 'When you do,' said Armorel, 'let there be no hesitation or possibility of mistaking. Oh! If I could tell you a thing that I know!' 'I will put it quite plainly. Effie, am I the same man? I feel transformed. What a difference it makes only to think that, perhaps, after all one is not such a dreadful failure!' In fact, he looked transformed. The trouble had gone out of him--out of his face--out of his hair--out of his clothes--out of his attitude. Armorel even fancied that his limp, day-before-yesterday's collar had become white and starched again. That may have been mere fancy, but joy certainly produces very strange effects.