DEARTH. They are all right now, but I had to work on them for months. MARGARET. You don't mean to say that you did my ears? DEARTH. Rather! MARGARET (grown humble). My dimple is my own. DEARTH. I am glad you think so. I wore out the point of my little finger over that dimple. MARGARET. Even my dimple! Have I anything that is really mine? A bit of my nose or anything? DEARTH. When you were a babe you had a laugh that was all your own. MARGARET. Haven't I it now? DEARTH. It's gone. (He looks ruefully at her.) I'll tell you how it went. We were fishing in a stream--that is to say, I was wading and you were sitting on my shoulders holding the rod. We didn't catch anything. Somehow or another--I can't think how I did it--you irritated me, and I answered you sharply. MARGARET (gasping). I can't believe that. DEARTH. Yes, it sounds extraordinary, but I did. It gave you a shock, and, for the moment, the world no longer seemed a safe place to you; your faith in me had always made it safe till then. You were suddenly not even sure of your bread and butter, and a frightened tear came to your eyes. I was in a nice state about it, I can tell you. (He is in a nice state about it still.) MARGARET. Silly! (Bewildered) But what has that to do with my laugh, Daddy? DEARTH. The laugh that children are born with lasts just so long as they have perfect faith. To think that it was I who robbed you of yours! MARGARET. Don't, dear. I am sure the laugh just went off with the tear to comfort it, and they have been playing about that stream ever since. They have quite forgotten us, so why should we remember them. Cheeky little beasts! Shall I tell you my farthest back recollection? (In some awe.) I remember the first time I saw the stars. I had never seen night, and then I saw it and the stars together. Crack-in-my-eye Tommy, it isn't every one who can boast of such a lovely, lovely, recollection for their earliest, is it? DEARTH. I was determined your earliest should be a good one. MARGARET (blankly). Do you mean to say you planned it? DEARTH. Rather! Most people's earliest recollection is of some trivial thing; how they cut their finger, or lost a piece of string. I was resolved my Margaret's should be something bigger. I was poor, but I could give her the stars. MARGARET (clutching him round the legs). Oh, how you love me, Daddikins. DEARTH. Yes, I do, rather. (A vagrant woman has wandered in their direction, one whom the shrill winds of life have lashed and bled; here and there ragged graces still cling to her, and unruly passion smoulders, but she, once a dear, fierce rebel, with eyes of storm, is now first of all a whimperer. She and they meet as strangers.) MARGARET (nicely, as becomes an artist's daughter.) Good evening. ALICE. Good evening, Missy; evening, Mister. DEARTH (seeing that her eyes search the ground). Lost anything?