[As he speaks, sir Thomas Hoxton and professor Calway enter from the house.  In the dim light, and the full cry of argument, they do not notice the figures at the fire.  Sir Thomas Hoxton leads towards the street door.]

Hoxton.  No, Sir, I repeat, if the country once commits itself to your views of reform, it’s as good as doomed.

Calway.  I seem to have heard that before, Sir Thomas.  And let me say at once that your hitty-missy cart-load of bricks regime——­

Hoxton.  Is a deuced sight better, sir, than your grand-motherly methods.  What the old fellow wants is a shock!  With all this socialistic molly-coddling, you’re losing sight of the individual.

Calway. [Swiftly.] You, sir, with your “devil take the hindmost,” have never even seen him.

     [Sir Thomas Hoxton, throwing back a gesture of disgust, steps
     out into the night, and falls heavily professor Calway,
     hastening to his rescue, falls more heavily still.]

     [Timson, momentarily roused from slumber on the doorstep, sits
     up.]

Hoxton. [Struggling to his knees.] Damnation!

Calway. [Sitting.] How simultaneous!

     [Wellwyn and Ferrand approach hastily.]

Ferrand. [Pointing to Timson.] Monsieur, it was true, it seems. 
They had lost sight of the individual.

     [A Policeman has appeared under the street lamp.  He picks up
     Hoxton’s hat.]

Constable.  Anything wrong, sir?

Hoxton. [Recovering his feet.] Wrong?  Great Scott!  Constable!  Why do you let things lie about in the street like this?  Look here, Wellyn!

     [They all scrutinize Timson.]

Wellwyn.  It’s only the old fellow whose reform you were discussing.

Hoxton.  How did he come here?

Constable.  Drunk, sir. [Ascertaining Timson to be in the street.]
Just off the premises, by good luck.  Come along, father.

Timson. [Assisted to his feet-drowsily.] Cert’nly, by no means; take my arm.

     [They move from the doorway.  Hoxton and Calway re-enter, and
     go towards the fire.]

Ann. [Entering from the house.] What’s happened?

Calway.  Might we have a brush?

Hoxton. [Testily.] Let it dry!

     [He moves to the fire and stands before it.  Professor Calway
     following stands a little behind him.  Ann returning begins to
     brush the PROFESSOR’s sleeve.]

Wellwyn. [Turning from the door, where he has stood looking after the receding Timson.] Poor old Timson!