Ann. [To herself.] Well, there isn’t.

Bertley.  And yet!  Some good in the old fellow, no doubt, if one could put one’s finger on it. [Preparing to go.] You’ll let us know, then, when you’re settled.  What was the address? [Wellwyn takes out and hands him a card.] Ah! yes.  Good-bye, Ann.  Good-bye, Wellyn. [The wind blows his hat along the street.] What a wind! [He goes, pursuing.]

Ann. [Who has eyed the card askance.] Daddy, have you told those other two where we’re going?

Wellwyn.  Which other two, my dear?

Ann.  The Professor and Sir Thomas.

Wellwyn.  Well, Ann, naturally I——­

Ann. [Jumping on to the dais with disgust.] Oh, dear!  When I’m trying to get you away from all this atmosphere.  I don’t so much mind the Vicar knowing, because he’s got a weak heart——­

     [She jumps off again. ]

Wellwyn. [To himself.] Seventh floor!  I felt there was something.

Ann. [Preparing to go.] I’m going round now.  But you must stay here till the van comes back.  And don’t forget you tipped the men after the first load.

Wellwyn.  Oh!  Yes, yes. [Uneasily.] Good sorts they look, those fellows!

Ann. [Scrutinising him.] What have you done?

Wellwyn.  Nothing, my dear, really——!

Ann.  What?

Wellwyn.  I—­I rather think I may have tipped them twice.

Ann. [Drily.] Daddy!  If it is the first of April, it’s not necessary to make a fool of oneself.  That’s the last time you ever do these ridiculous things. [Wellwyn eyes her askance.] I’m going to see that you spend your money on yourself.  You needn’t look at me like that!  I mean to.  As soon as I’ve got you away from here, and all—­these——­

Wellwyn.  Don’t rub it in, Ann!

Ann. [Giving him a sudden hug—­then going to the door—­with a sort of triumph.] Deeds, not words, Daddy!

     [She goes out, and the wind catching her scarf blows it out
     beneath her firm young chin.  Wellwyn returning to the fire,
     stands brooding, and gazing at his extinct cigarette.]

Wellwyn. [To himself.] Bad lot—­low type!  No method!  No theory!

[In the open doorway appear Ferrand and Mrs. Megan.  They stand, unseen, looking at him.  Ferrand is more ragged, if possible, than on Christmas Eve.  His chin and cheeks are clothed in a reddish golden beard.  Mrs. MEGAN’s dress is not so woe-begone, but her face is white, her eyes dark-circled.  They whisper.  She slips back into the shadow of the doorway.  Wellwyn turns at the sound, and stares at Ferrand in amazement.]

Ferrand. [Advancing.] Enchanted to see you, Monsieur. [He looks round the empty room.] You are leaving?