“He’s a darling, Ronnie,” Mornice would say, most days; “but he is old-fashioned, and if we are to make the play go, we must modernise him.” But window-boxes on the pyramids will not make them resemble art villas at Letchworth, and this fact they learnt too late to be of use. Naturally, these many preoccupations kept Mornice so busy that the study of her part was almost entirely side-tracked, but it never occurred to her to entertain misgivings on that account. About this time a slight staleness was discernible in the progress of the play. Eliphalet could not tell whence it arose or how to combat it, but vaguely he wished for the services of some virile brain other than his own to preside at rehearsals. Mr. Raymond Wakefield, for instance, who had tied him up in such painful knots on the occasion of his appearance in London. He would have known in an instant what was required. There were legions of tiny but vital subtleties that cried out for definition, and in all Eliphalet’s bag of tricks there was no machinery for bringing them into focus. In every scene they bubbled up through the lines, like vortices in quicksand. A thousand fine points of psychology that needed assembling, refining and giving prominence. Eliphalet was bewildered by their numbers; he did not know where or how to start work upon them, and he sat by the footlights, brows contracted, finger-tips together, in silent dissatisfaction with himself and the play. On the seventh day of rehearsals he rose distractedly, and exclaimed: “We are not getting on, ladies and gentlemen. I am sure we are all doing our best, but we are not getting any forrader.” Then old Kitterson spoke. “I know it, Guv’nor; but it’s devilish hard. How are we going to get big effects out of these lines? I’m not saying anything against ’em, mind.” “It’s so natural, Guv’nor,” complained Mellish, another old-timer. Miss Fullar shook her head wisely. “That’s it; too natural.” “It is not for big effects we must try,” said Eliphalet, “but for the little ones. The big effects in this play arise from the little. Therefore we must try to create a standard excellence.” It was, perhaps, the nearest approach toward expressing the essentials of a modern production he ever made. “Yes, but how are we to do it?” old Kitterson questioned. “Oh, we shall see,” said Eliphalet, rather feebly, and subsided into his chair again. At supper that night he was rather dejected. “Cheer up, Dads,” said Mornice. “After all, you and I have most of the work to do, and we shall make things go.” He answered her rather seriously. “I can see what to do with you,” he said, “for you are far astray from the part. It is the others who perplex me.” Mornice was taken back.