However early you come to the performance you always find him there. For minutes and minutes you may only be aware of very shiny square-toed boots and black-trousered legs and a newspaper that hides the of him. On most days it will be "The Times", on Wednesday it may be "Punch", and on Saturdays "The Spectator." "That is a gentleman's reading," he says. When the paper is lowered, as he turns a page, you behold one of those oldish gentlemen with a rather pleasant bad temper who really only mean to demand by it that young people shall pay them the compliment of "getting round" them. As the time of the performance draws near he is apt, at each lowering of the paper, to count you up as you sit there waiting, and if there are not enough of you he looks very disapproving indeed. Alice watches you furtively almost all the time as she knits or crochets. For audiences make such a difference to her, and she is always hoping for a good one. It need not be a big one to be good (Uncle Edward likes them big). To be a good audience is to take your share of the performance by enjoying it in a simple jolly way--if you can. That eases the actors of half the strain, and then they can enjoy it, too. And if you can't do this, you'd much better go home. When it is quite near the time to begin, you hear the orchestra tuning up. This you should never miss. There is nothing like it as a t to rouse the theatre appetite. At the sound of it Alice puts away her knitting, and hopes her hair is tidy. Then on a single flute a little tune is played, and the child's eyes light up. Music excites her, sets all the gaiety in her free. If it wasn't for the help that music is she'd quite despair sometimes of getting through the play. "That's mine. That's my theme," she says. "I've had a piece of music to myself because every one in this has a piece of music. But mine is--" But Uncle Edward has finally put his paper down. And now--by mean a violent operation on his waistcoat--he produces an enormous silver watch, like those that railway guards have. And he turns to Alice. "Time," he says magnificently. Alice looks doubtfully at the laggards trailing to their places and snapping down the stalls. But Uncle Edward is adamant to her if tolerant to them. "Some of 'em always late," and his blue eye roves round. "It's their dinner. But go and begin your bit like a good girl." So then Alice comes to the middle of the stage; swallows a little from nervousness, and begins... ALICE. If you please, this is going to be a Harlequinade ... a real one. And we begin it at the beginning, which is as many thousand years ago as you like to believe. It's about how ... how ... UNCLE EDWARD. Psyche. ALICE. When I was young I would call her Fishy. It is all about how Psyche, who is a perfect darling ...