Ferrand.  Ma’moiselle, we would ask you the same question.

Mrs. Megan.  The gentleman let me.  ’E’s funny.

Ferrand.  ‘C’est un ange’ [At Mrs. MEGAN’s blank stare he interprets.] An angel!

Mrs. Megan.  Me luck’s out-that’s why I come.

Ferrand. [Rising.] Ah!  Ma’moiselle!  Luck!  There is the little God who dominates us all.  Look at this old! [He points to Timson.] He is finished.  In his day that old would be doing good business.  He could afford himself—­[He maker a sign of drinking.]—­Then come the motor cars.  All goes—­he has nothing left, only ’is ’abits of a ‘cocher’!  Luck!

Timson. [With a vague gesture—­drowsily.] Kick the foreign beggars out.

Ferrand.  A real Englishman . . . .  And look at me!  My father was merchant of ostrich feathers in Brussels.  If I had been content to go in his business, I would ’ave been rich.  But I was born to roll—­“rolling stone"to voyage is stronger than myself.  Luck! . .  And you, Ma’moiselle, shall I tell your fortune? [He looks in her face.] You were born for ’la joie de vivre’—­to drink the wines of life.  ‘Et vous voila’!  Luck!

     [Though she does not in the least understand what he has said,
     her expression changes to a sort of glee.]

Ferrand.  Yes.  You were born loving pleasure.  Is it not?  You see, you cannot say, No.  All of us, we have our fates.  Give me your hand. [He kneels down and takes her hand.] In each of us there is that against which we cannot struggle.  Yes, yes!

     [He holds her hand, and turns it over between his own. 
     Mrs. Megan remains stolid, half fascinated, half-reluctant.]

Timson. [Flickering into consciousness.] Be’ave yourselves!  Yer crimson canary birds!

     [Mrs. Megan would withdraw her hand, but cannot.]

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

     [Timson relapses into comatosity, upsetting his glass, which
     falls with a crash.]

Mrs. Megan.  Let go my hand, please!

Ferrand. [Relinquishing it, and staring into the fore gravely.] There is one thing I have never done—­’urt a woman—­that is hardly in my character. [Then, drawing a little closer, he looks into her face.] Tell me, Ma’moiselle, what is it you think of all day long?

Mrs. Megan.  I dunno—­lots, I thinks of.

Ferrand.  Shall I tell you? [Her eyes remain fixed on his, the strangeness of him preventing her from telling him to “get along.”  He goes on in his ironic voice.] It is of the streets—­the lights—­ the faces—­it is of all which moves, and is warm—­it is of colour—­it is [he brings his face quite close to hers] of Love.  That is for you what the road is for me.  That is for you what the rum is for that old—­[He jerks his thumb back at Timson.  Then bending swiftly forward to the girl.] See!  I kiss you—­Ah!