you sit there waiting, and if there are not enough of you he looks very
disapproving indeed.

Alice watches you furtively almost all the time as she knits or
crochets. For audiences make such a difference to her, and she is
always hoping for a good one. It need not be a big one to be good
(Uncle Edward likes them big). To be a good audience is to take your
share of the performance by enjoying it in a simple jolly way--if you
can. That eases the actors of half the strain, and then they can enjoy
it, too. And if you can't do this, you'd much better go home.

When it is quite near the time to begin, you hear the orchestra tuning
up. This you should never miss. There is nothing like it as a t
to rouse the theatre appetite. At the sound of it Alice puts away her
knitting, and hopes her hair is tidy.

Then on a single flute a little tune is played, and the child's eyes
light up. Music excites her, sets all the gaiety in her free. If it
wasn't for the help that music is she'd quite despair sometimes of
getting through the play.

"That's mine. That's my theme," she says. "I've had a piece of music to
myself because every one in this has a piece of music. But mine is--"

But Uncle Edward has finally put his paper down. And now--by mean
a violent operation on his waistcoat--he produces an enormous silver
watch, like those that railway guards have. And he turns to Alice.

"Time," he says magnificently.