Wellwyn. [Nodding—­then taking the young man’s hand.] How goes it?

Ferrand. [Displaying himself, simply.] As you see, Monsieur.  I have done of my best.  It still flies from me.

Wellwyn. [Sadly—­as if against his will.] Ferrand, it will always fly.

     [The young foreigner shivers suddenly from head to foot; then
     controls himself with a great effort.]

Ferrand.  Don’t say that, Monsieur!  It is too much the echo of my heart.

Wellwyn.  Forgive me!  I didn’t mean to pain you.

Ferrand. [Drawing nearer the fire.] That old cabby, Monsieur, you remember—­they tell me, he nearly succeeded to gain happiness the other day.

     [Wellwyn nods.]

Ferrand.  And those Sirs, so interested in him, with their theories?  He has worn them out? [Wellwyn nods.] That goes without saying.  And now they wish for him the lethal chamber.

Wellwyn. [Startled.] How did you know that?

     [There is silence.]

Ferrand. [Staring into the fire.] Monsieur, while I was on the road this time I fell ill of a fever.  It seemed to me in my illness that I saw the truth—­how I was wasting in this world—­I would never be good for any one—­nor any one for me—­all would go by, and I never of it—­fame, and fortune, and peace, even the necessities of life, ever mocking me.

     [He draws closer to the fire, spreading his fingers to the
     flame.  And while he is speaking, through the doorway Mrs.
     Megan creeps in to listen.]

Ferrand. [Speaking on into the fire.] And I saw, Monsieur, so plain, that I should be vagabond all my days, and my days short, I dying in the end the death of a dog.  I saw it all in my fever—­ clear as that flame—­there was nothing for us others, but the herb of death. [Wellwyn takes his arm and presses it.] And so, Monsieur, I wished to die.  I told no one of my fever.  I lay out on the ground—­it was verree cold.  But they would not let me die on the roads of their parishes—­they took me to an Institution, Monsieur, I looked in their eyes while I lay there, and I saw more clear than the blue heaven that they thought it best that I should die, although they would not let me.  Then Monsieur, naturally my spirit rose, and I said:  “So much the worse for you.  I will live a little more.”  One is made like that!  Life is sweet, Monsieur.

Wellwyn.  Yes, Ferrand; Life is sweet.

Ferrand.  That little girl you had here, Monsieur [Wellwyn nods.] in her too there is something of wild-savage.  She must have joy of life.  I have seen her since I came back.  She has embraced the life of joy.  It is not quite the same thing. [He lowers his voice.] She is lost, Monsieur, as a stone that sinks in water.  I can see, if she cannot. [As Wellwyn makes a movement of distress.] Oh!  I am not to blame for that, Monsieur.  It had well begun before I knew her.