There was quite a row of them on the mantel-piece. They were all facing
front, and it looked as if they had come out of the wall behind, and
were on their little stage facing the audience. There was the bronze
monk reading a book by the light of a candle, who had a private opening
under his girdle, so that sometimes his head was thrown violently back,
and one looked down into him and found him full of brimstone matches.
Then the little boy leaning against a greyhound; he was made of Parian,
very fine Parian, too, so that one would expect to find a glass cover
over him: but no, the glass cover stood over a cat and a cat made of
worsted, too: still it was a very old cat, fifty years old in fact.
There was another young person there, young like the boy leaning on a
greyhound, and she, too, was of Parian: she was very fair in front, but
behind--ah, that is a secret which is not quite time yet to tell. One
other stood there, at least she seemed to stand, but nobody could see
her feet, for her dress was so very wide and so finely flounced. She was
the china girl that rose out of a pen-wiper.

The fire in the grate below was of soft coal, and flashed up and down,
throwing little jets of flame up that made very pretty foot-lights. So
here was a stage, and here were the actors, but where was the audience?
Oh, the Audience was in the arm-chair in front. He had a special seat;
he was a critic, and could get up when he wanted to, when the play
became tiresome, and go out.

"It is painful to say such things out loud," said the
Boy-leaning-against-a-greyhound, with a trembling voice, "but we have
been together so long, and these people round us never will go away.
Dear girl, will you?--you know." It was the Parian girl that he spoke
to, but he did not look at her; he could not, he was leaning against the