[And he fires. But he doesn't fall. Instead, the mirror cracks and a puff of smoke comes from it. Alice must not interrupt the story or she would; and she aches to, because she always fears the audience may not grasp the point. Lord Eglantine was a reflection of his tim the polished mirror of his age. Until he blew the reflection into smithereens, he had no soul, no reality. A wig, a box of patches, snuff, silk, lace, a clouded cane, a neat sense for words, that was Eglantine, and now he has become, in all humility, a man. Back comes Harlequin to find him. HARLEQUIN. My lord! EGLANTINE. A slight accident. HARLEQUIN. The noise has wakened our neighbours. EGLANTINE. On my honour it has wakened me. HARLEQUIN. Richardson! [Columbine appears. Kindly pick up his lordship's pieces. [She has her little dust-pan and brush, and most neatly she does so. Eglantine--a new Eglantine--watches her, and the thought of a new life is born in him. EGLANTINE. We've a few guineas in the house, I suppose? HARLEQUIN. A few, my lord. EGLANTINE. Enough for a coach hire to the country. A penniless fellow such as I am, Quin, would she welcome me to her home, I wonder? HARLEQUIN. But I fear that this parchment fails of its effect unless your lordship is married to the owner. EGLANTINE. But not a bad idea, Quin. [Then he sighs doubtfully.] Would she think so? HARLEQUIN. Let us ask her when she has picked up the pieces. [And here Alice and Uncle Edward draw the curtains, for the scene is over. But Alice still stands fingering their folds. Her eyes smile, but her mouth droops a little doubtfully. She is never over-happy about this scene. "Very pretty" she hears the front row people say; and then they rustle their programmes and read about whiskey very old in bottle, or cigarettes, a very special blend. "Very pretty" is so patronising. Someone else remarks "How quaint"; and that is worse still. Miles away from us is the meaning of that eighteenth century with its polished perfections. So perfect, yet so partially perfect, that mankind could only break them all to pieces and start again. But Alice, tidy little soul, loves the fine order of it all. If they embroidered flowers so well, they must, she thinks, have loved the very flowers, too, and such good manners must have meant that somewhere underneath the silk and stays they had kind and worthy souls. But her mouth does droop a little, and she asks her uncle, almost whispering: "Do you think they understood it?" "Any child could understand it," Uncle Edward says, and back to his paper he goes. Alice gives a shy glance round. She doesn't mind now if they do hear. "But that's the trouble, as poor Auntie used to say: 'They're not children.' Don't we only wish they were."