n we pursue this policy; but by
Justice we shall hereafter be judged, and by Civilization--condemned.

While he is speaking, a little figure has flown along the
terrace outside, in the direction of the music, but has stopped
at the sound of his voice, and stands in the open window,
listening--a dark-haired, dark-eyed child, in a blue
dressing-gown caught up in her hand. The street musicians,
having reached the end of a tune, are silent.

In the intensity of MORES feeling, a wine-glass, gripped too
strongly, breaks and falls in pieces onto a finger-bowl. The
child starts forward into the room.

MORE. Olive!

OLIVE. Who were you speaking to, Daddy?

MORE. [Staring at her] The wind, sweetheart!

OLIVE. There isn't any!

MORE. What blew you down, then?

OLIVE. [Mysteriously] The music. Did the wind break the
wine-glass, or did it come in two in your hand?

MORE. Now my sprite! Upstairs again, before Nurse catches you.
Fly! Fly!

OLIVE. Oh! no, Daddy! [With confidential fervour] It feels like
things to-night!

MORE. You're right there!

OLIVE. [Pulling him down to her, and whispering] I must get back
again in secret. H'sh!

She suddenly runs and wraps herself into one of the curtains of
the bay window. A young man enters, with a note in his hand.

MORE. Hello, Steel!

[The street musicians have again begun to play.]

STEEL. From Sir John--by special messenger from the War Office.

MORE. [Reading the note] "The ball is opened."

He stands brooding over the note, and STEEL looks at him
anxiously. He is a dark, sallow, thin-faced young man, with the
eyes of one who can attach himself to people, and suffer with
them.

STEEL. I'm glad it's begun, sir. It would have been an awful pity
to have made that speech.

MORE. You too, Steel!

STEEL. I mean, if it's actually started----

MORE. [Tearing tie note across] Yes. Keep that to yourself.

STEEL. Do you want me any more?

MORE takes from his breast pocket some papers, and pitches them
down on the bureau.

MORE. Answer these.

STEEL. [Going to the bureau] Fetherby was simply sickening. [He
begins to write. Struggle has begun again in MORE] Not the faintest
recognition that there are two sides to it.

MORE gives him a quick look, goes quietly to the dining-table
and picks up his sheaf of notes. Hiding them wi