Wellwyn.  He’s done that.

Bertley.  Ah!  Then—­[Wellwyn and Ann hang on his words] then I should—­er—­

Ann. [Abruptly.] Remove him.

Bertley.  Before I say that, Ann, I must certainly see the individual.

Wellwyn. [Pointing to the window.] There he is!

     [In the failing light Timson’s face is indeed to be seen
     pressed against the window pane.]

Ann.  Daddy, I do wish you’d have thick glass put in.  It’s so disgusting to be spied at! [Wellwyn going quickly to the door, has opened it.] What do you want? [Timson enters with dignity.  He is fuddled.]

Timson. [Slowly.] Arskin’ yer pardon-thought it me duty to come back-found thish yer little brishel on me. [He produces the little paint brush.]

Ann. [In a deadly voice.] Nothing else?

     [Timson accords her a glassy stare.]

Wellwyn. [Taking the brush hastily.] That’ll do, Timson, thanks!

Timson.  As I am ’ere, can I do anything for yer?

Ann.  Yes, you can sweep out that little room. [She points to the model’s room.] There’s a broom in there.

Timson. [Disagreeably surprised.] Certainly; never make bones about a little extra—­never ’ave in all me life.  Do it at onsh, I will. [He moves across to the model’s room at that peculiar broad gait so perfectly adjusted to his habits.] You quite understand me —­couldn’t bear to ’ave anything on me that wasn’t mine.

     [He passes out.]

Ann.  Old fraud!

Wellwyn.  “In” and “on.”  Mark my words, he’ll restore the—­bottles.

Bertley.  But, my dear Wellwyn, that is stealing.

Wellwyn.  We all have our discrepancies, Vicar.

Ann.  Daddy!  Discrepancies!

Wellwyn.  Well, Ann, my theory is that as regards solids Timson’s an Individualist, but as regards liquids he’s a Socialist . . . or ‘vice versa’, according to taste.

Bertley.  No, no, we mustn’t joke about it. [Gravely.] I do think he should be spoken to.

Wellwyn.  Yes, but not by me.

Bertley.  Surely you’re the proper person.

Wellwyn. [Shaking his head.] It was my rum, Vicar.  Look so personal.

     [There sound a number of little tat-tat knocks.]

Wellwyn.  Isn’t that the Professor’s knock?

[While Ann sits down to make tea, he goes to the door and opens it.  There, dressed in an ulster, stands a thin, clean-shaved man, with a little hollow sucked into either cheek, who, taking off a grey squash hat, discloses a majestically bald forehead, which completely dominates all that comes below it.]

Wellwyn.  Come in, Professor!  So awfully good of you!  You know Canon Bentley, I think?