Ferrand.  It is nothing, Monsieur; for the moment he thinks ’imself a ’orse.  ‘Il joue “cache-cache,"’ ’ide and seek, with what you call—­ ’is bitt.

Wellwyn.  But what’s to be done with him?  One can’t turn him out in this state.

Ferrand.  If you wish to leave him ’ere, Monsieur, have no fear.  I charge myself with him.

Wellwyn.  Oh! [Dubiously.] You—­er—­I really don’t know, I—­hadn’t contemplated—­You think you could manage if I—­if I went to bed?

Ferrand.  But certainly, Monsieur.

Wellwyn. [Still dubiously.] You—­you’re sure you’ve everything you want?

Ferrand. [Bowing.] ‘Mais oui, Monsieur’.

Wellwyn.  I don’t know what I can do by staying.

Ferrand.  There is nothing you can do, Monsieur.  Have confidence in me.

Wellwyn.  Well-keep the fire up quietly—­very quietly.  You’d better take this coat of mine, too.  You’ll find it precious cold, I expect, about three o’clock. [He hands Ferrand his Ulster.]

Ferrand. [Taking it.] I shall sleep in praying for you, Monsieur.

Wellwyn.  Ah!  Yes!  Thanks!  Well-good-night!  By the way, I shall be down rather early.  Have to think of my household a bit, you know.

Ferrand.  ‘Tres bien, Monsieur’.  I comprehend.  One must well be regular in this life.

Wellwyn. [With a start.] Lord! [He looks at the door of the model’s room.] I’d forgotten——­

Ferrand.  Can I undertake anything, Monsieur?

Wellwyn.  No, no! [He goes to the electric light switch by the outer door.] You won’t want this, will you?

Ferrand.  ‘Merci, Monsieur’.

     [Wellwyn switches off the light.]

Ferrand.  ‘Bon soir, Monsieur’!

Wellwyn.  The devil!  Er—­good-night!

     [He hesitates, rumples his hair, and passes rather suddenly
     away.]

Ferrand. [To himself.] Poor pigeon! [Looking long at old Timson]
‘Espece de type anglais!’

[He sits down in the firelight, curls up a foot on his knee, and taking out a knife, rips the stitching of a turned-up end of trouser, pinches the cloth double, and puts in the preliminary stitch of a new hem—­all with the swiftness of one well-accustomed.  Then, as if hearing a sound behind him, he gets up quickly and slips behind the screen.  Mrs. Megan, attracted by the cessation of voices, has opened the door, and is creeping from the model’s room towards the fire.  She has almost reached it before she takes in the torpid crimson figure of old Timson.  She halts and puts her hand to her chest—­a queer figure in the firelight, garbed in the canary-coloured bath gown and rabbit’s-wool slippers, her black matted hair straggling down