Timson. [Touching his forehead.] Certainly, sir.  I quite understand.  I’m not that sort, as I think I’ve proved to yer, comin’ here regular day after day, all the week.  There’s one thing, I ought to warn you perhaps—­I might ’ave to give this job up any day.

     [He makes a faint demonstration with the little brush, then puts
     it, absent-mindedly, into his pocket.]

Wellwyn. [Gravely.] I’d never stand in the way of your bettering yourself, Timson.  And, by the way, my daughter spoke to a friend about you to-day.  I think something may come of it.

Timson.  Oh!  Oh!  She did!  Well, it might do me a bit o’ good. [He makes for the outer door, but stops.] That foreigner!  ’E sticks in my gizzard.  It’s not as if there wasn’t plenty o’ pigeons for ’im to pluck in ’is own Gawd-forsaken country.  Reg-lar jay, that’s what I calls ’im.  I could tell yer something——­

[He has opened the door, and suddenly sees that Ferrand himself is standing there.  Sticking out his lower lip, Timson gives a roll of his jaw and lurches forth into the street.  Owing to a slight miscalculation, his face and raised arms are plainly visible through the window, as he fortifies himself from his battle against the cold.  Ferrand, having closed the door, stands with his thumb acting as pointer towards this spectacle.  He is now remarkably dressed in an artist’s squashy green hat, a frock coat too small for him, a bright blue tie of knitted silk, the grey trousers that were torn, well-worn brown boots, and a tan waistcoat.]

Wellwyn.  What luck to-day?

Ferrand. [With a shrug.] Again I have beaten all London, Monsieur —­not one bite. [Contemplating himself.] I think perhaps, that, for the bourgeoisie, there is a little too much colour in my costume.

Wellwyn. [Contemplating him.] Let’s see—­I believe I’ve an old top hat somewhere.

Ferrand.  Ah!  Monsieur, ‘merci’, but that I could not.  It is scarcely in my character.

Wellwyn.  True!

Ferrand.  I have been to merchants of wine, of tabac, to hotels, to Leicester Square.  I have been to a Society for spreading Christian knowledge—­I thought there I would have a chance perhaps as interpreter.  ‘Toujours meme chose’, we regret, we have no situation for you—­same thing everywhere.  It seems there is nothing doing in this town.

Wellwyn.  I’ve noticed, there never is.

Ferrand.  I was thinking, Monsieur, that in aviation there might be a career for me—­but it seems one must be trained.

Wellwyn.  Afraid so, Ferrand.