It is the first of April—­a white spring day of gleams and driving showers.  The street door of WELLWYN’s studio stands wide open, and, past it, in the street, the wind is whirling bits of straw and paper bags.  Through the door can be seen the butt end of a stationary furniture van with its flap let down.  To this van three humble-men in shirt sleeves and aprons, are carrying out the contents of the studio.  The hissing samovar, the tea-pot, the sugar, and the nearly empty decanter of rum stand on the low round table in the fast-being-gutted room.  Wellwyn in his ulster and soft hat, is squatting on the little stool in front of the blazing fire, staring into it, and smoking a hand-made cigarette.  He has a moulting air.  Behind him the humble-men pass, embracing busts and other articles of vertu.

Chief H’MAN. [Stopping, and standing in the attitude of expectation.] We’ve about pinched this little lot, sir.  Shall we take the—­reservoir?

     [He indicates the samovar.]

Wellwyn.  Ah! [Abstractedly feeling in his pockets, and finding coins.] Thanks—­thanks—­heavy work, I’m afraid.

H’MAN. [Receiving the coins—­a little surprised and a good deal pleased.] Thank’ee, sir.  Much obliged, I’m sure.  We’ll ’ave to come back for this. [He gives the dais a vigorous push with his foot.] Not a fixture, as I understand.  Perhaps you’d like us to leave these ’ere for a bit. [He indicates the tea things.]

Wellwyn.  Ah! do.

[The humble-men go out.  There is the sound of horses being started, and the butt end of the van disappears.  Wellwyn stays on his stool, smoking and brooding over the fare.  The open doorway is darkened by a figure.  Canon Bertley is standing there.]

Bertley.  Wellwyn! [Wellwyn turns and rises.] It’s ages since I saw you.  No idea you were moving.  This is very dreadful.

Wellwyn.  Yes, Ann found this—­too exposed.  That tall house in Flight Street—­we’re going there.  Seventh floor.

Bertley.  Lift?

     [Wellwyn shakes his head.]

Bertley.  Dear me!  No lift?  Fine view, no doubt. [Wellwyn nods.] You’ll be greatly missed.

Wellwyn.  So Ann thinks.  Vicar, what’s become of that little flower-seller I was painting at Christmas?  You took her into service.

Bertley.  Not we—­exactly!  Some dear friends of ours.  Painful subject!

Wellwyn.  Oh!

Bertley.  Yes.  She got the footman into trouble.

Wellwyn.  Did she, now?

Bertley.  Disappointing.  I consulted with Calway, and he advised me to try a certain institution.  We got her safely in—­excellent place; but, d’you know, she broke out three weeks ago.  And since—­ I’ve heard [he holds his hands up] hopeless, I’m afraid—­quite!