The servant retires.  More still stands looking down at the dining-table; then putting his hand to his throat, as if to free it from the grip of his collar, he pours out a glass of water, and drinks it of.  In the street, outside the bay window, two street musicians, a harp and a violin, have taken up their stand, and after some twangs and scrapes, break into music.  More goes towards the sound, and draws aside one curtain.  After a moment, he returns to the table, and takes up the notes of the speech.  He is in an agony of indecision.

More.  A cur!

He seems about to tear his notes across.  Then, changing his mind, turns them over and over, muttering.  His voice gradually grows louder, till he is declaiming to the empty room the peroration of his speech.

More. . . .  We have arrogated to our land the title Champion of Freedom, Foe of Oppression.  Is that indeed a bygone glory?  Is it not worth some sacrifice of our pettier dignity, to avoid laying another stone upon its grave; to avoid placing before the searchlight eyes of History the spectacle of yet one more piece of national cynicism?  We are about to force our will and our dominion on a race that has always been free, that loves its country, and its independence, as much as ever we love ours.  I cannot sit silent to-night and see this begin.  As we are tender of our own land, so we should be of the lands of others.  I love my country.  It is because I love my country that I raise my voice.  Warlike in spirit these people may be—­but they have no chance against ourselves.  And war on such, however agreeable to the blind moment, is odious to the future.  The great heart of mankind ever beats in sense and sympathy with the weaker.  It is against this great heart of mankind that we are going.  In the name of Justice and Civilization 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!