ALICE. [_proceeding to explain._] Therefore you're not fond of creeds and ceremonies. Therefore . . as the good things of this wordly world don't satisfy you, you shirk contact with it all you can. I understand this temptation to neglect and despise practical things. But if one yields to it one's character narrows and cheapens. That's a pity . . but it's so. EDWARD. [_his eyes far away._] D'you ever feel that there aren't enough windows in a house? ALICE. [_prosaically._] In this weather . . too many. EDWARD. Well then . . in a house--especially in a big city--in my office at work, then . . one is out of hearing of all the music of the world. And when one does get back to Nature, instead of being all curves to her roundness, one is all corners. ALICE. [_smiling at him._] Yes, you love to think idly . . just as Hugh does. You do it quite well, too. [_then briskly._] Edward, may I scold you? EDWARD. For that? ALICE. Because of that. You're grown to be a sloven lately . . deliberately letting yourself be unhappy. EDWARD. Is happiness under one's control? ALICE. My friend, you shouldn't neglect your happiness any more than you neglect to wash your face. Here has the squalour of your work been making you poor. Because it was liable to be stopped at any moment uncompleted . . why should that let your life be incomplete? Edward, for the last eighteen months you've been more like a moral portent than a man. You've not had a smile to throw to a friend . . or an opinion upon any subject. You've dropped your Volunteering. [_he protests._] I know there's something comic in volunteering . . though Heaven knows what it is! I suppose you found it out of keeping with your unhappy fate. And how slack you were in your politics last November. I don't believe you even voted . . EDWARD. [_contrite at this._] That was wrong of me! ALICE. Yes, I expect a man to be a good citizen. And you don't even eat properly. _With that she completes the accusation and_ EDWARD _searches round for a defence_. EDWARD. Alice, it was always an effort with me to do all those things . . and lately every effort has had to go to my work. ALICE. You did them . . on principle. EDWARD. Don't laugh at me. ALICE. [_whispering the awful words._] Then truthfully, Edward, once upon a time you were a bit of a prig. EDWARD. [_with enough sense of humour to whisper back._] Was I? ALICE. I'm afraid so! But the prig fell ill when your father died . . and had to be buried in his grave. [_Then her voice rises stirringly._] Oh, don't you see what a blessing this cursed work was meant to be to you? Why must you stand stiff against it? EDWARD. [_without a smile now._] But lately, Alice, I've hardly known myself. Once or twice I've lost my temper . . I've been brutal. ALICE. That's the best news in the world. There's your own wicked nature coming out. That's what we've been waiting for . . that's what we want. That's you. EDWARD. [_still serious._] I'm sorry for it.