on her neck.  Having quite digested the fact that the old man is in a sort of stupor, Mrs. Megan goes close to the fire, and sits on the little stool, smiling sideways at old Timson.  Ferrand, coming quietly up behind, examines her from above, drooping his long nose as if enquiring with it as to her condition in life; then he steps back a yard or two.]

Ferrand. [Gently.] ‘Pardon, Ma’moiselle’.

Mrs. Megan. [Springing to her feet.] Oh!

Ferrand.  All right, all right!  We are brave gents!

Timson. [Faintly roused.] ’Old up, there!

Ferrand.  Trust in me, Ma’moiselle!

     [Mrs. Megan responds by drawing away.]

Ferrand. [Gently.] We must be good comrades.  This asylum—­it is better than a doss-’ouse.

     [He pushes the stool over towards her, and seats himself. 
     Somewhat reassured, Mrs. Megan again sits down.]

Mrs. Megan.  You frightened me.

Timson. [Unexpectedly-in a drowsy tone.] Purple foreigners!

Ferrand.  Pay no attention, Ma’moiselle.  He is a philosopher.

Mrs. Megan.  Oh!  I thought ’e was boozed.

     [They both look at Timson]

Ferrand.  It is the same-veree ’armless.

Mrs. Megan.  What’s that he’s got on ’im?

Ferrand.  It is a coronation robe.  Have no fear, Ma’moiselle.  Veree docile potentate.

Mrs. Megan.  I wouldn’t be afraid of him. [Challenging Ferrand.] I’m afraid o’ you.

Ferrand.  It is because you do not know me, Ma’moiselle.  You are wrong, it is always the unknown you should love.

Mrs. Megan.  I don’t like the way you-speaks to me.

Ferrand.  Ah!  You are a Princess in disguise?

Mrs. Megan.  No fear!

Ferrand.  No?  What is it then you do to make face against the necessities of life?  A living?

Mrs. Megan.  Sells flowers.

Ferrand. [Rolling his eyes.] It is not a career.

Mrs. Megan. [With a touch of devilry.] You don’t know what I do.

Ferrand.  Ma’moiselle, whatever you do is charming.

     [Mrs. Megan looks at him, and slowly smiles.]

Mrs. Megan.  You’re a foreigner.

Ferrand.  It is true.

Mrs. Megan.  What do you do for a livin’?

Ferrand.  I am an interpreter.

Mrs. Megan.  You ain’t very busy, are you?

Ferrand. [With dignity.] At present I am resting.

Mrs. Megan. [Looking at him and smiling.] How did you and ’im come here?