ALICE. Don't tell them the rest . . they won't understand. I shall be jealous if you tell them. EDWARD. [_looking at her as she at him._] Well, you've the right to be. This deed . . it's not done yet . . is your property. ALICE. Thank you. I've always wanted to have something useful to my credit . . and I'd almost given up hoping. _Then suddenly his face changes, his voice changes and he grips the hand he is holding so tightly as to hurt her._ EDWARD. Alice, if my father's story were true . . he must have begun like this. Trying to do the right thing in the wrong way . . then doing the wrong thing . . then bringing himself to what he was . . and so me to this. [_he flings away from her._] No, Alice, I won't do it. I daren't take that first step down. It's a worse risk than any failure. Think . . I might succeed. ALICE _stands very still, looking at him_. ALICE. It's a big risk. Well . . I'll take it. _He turns to her, in wonder._ EDWARD. You? ALICE. I'll risk your becoming a bad man. That's a big risk for me. _He understands, and is calmed and made happy._ EDWARD. Then there is no more to be said, is there? ALICE. Not now. [_as she drops this gentle hint she hears something--the hall door opening._] Here's Booth back again. EDWARD. [_with a really mischievous grin._] He'll be so glad he's convinced me. ALICE. I must go back to Honor, poor girl. I wonder she has a tear left. _She leaves him, briskly, brightly; leaves her cousin with his mouth set and a light in his eyes._ THE FOURTH ACT MR. VOYSEY'S _room at the office is_ EDWARD'S _now. It has somehow lost that brilliancy which the old man's occupation seemed to give it. Perhaps it is only because this December morning is dull and depressing, but the fire isn't bright and the panels and windows don't shine as they did. There are no roses on the table either._ EDWARD, _walking in as his father did, hanging his hat and coat where his father's used to hang, is certainly the palest shadow of that other masterful presence. A depressed, drooping shadow too. This may be what_ PEACEY _feels, if no more, for he looks very surly as he obeys the old routine of following his chief to this room on his arrival. Nor has_ EDWARD _so much as a glance for his clerk. They exchange the formalest of greetings._ EDWARD _sits joylessly to his desk, on which the morning's pile of letters lies, unopened now_. PEACEY. Good morning, sir. EDWARD. Good morning, Peacey. Have you any notes for me? PEACEY. Well, I've hardly been through the letters yet, sir. EDWARD. [_his eyebrows meeting._] Oh . . and I'm half an hour late myself this morning. PEACEY. I'm very sorry, sir. EDWARD. If Mr. Bullen calls you had better show him all those papers I gave you. Write to Metcalfe as soon as possible; say I interviewed Mr. Vickery myself this morning and the houses will not be proceeded with. Better let me see the letter. PEACEY. Very good, sir. EDWARD. That's all, thank you.