Wellwyn.  Yes, yes—­I was afraid of it, at the time.

     [Mrs. Megan turns silently, and slips away.]

FEERRAND.  I do my best for her, Monsieur, but look at me!  Besides, I am not good for her—­it is not good for simple souls to be with those who see things clear.  For the great part of mankind, to see anything—­is fatal.

Wellwyn.  Even for you, it seems.

Ferrand.  No, Monsieur.  To be so near to death has done me good; I shall not lack courage any more till the wind blows on my grave.  Since I saw you, Monsieur, I have been in three Institutions.  They are palaces.  One may eat upon the floor—­though it is true—­for Kings—­they eat too much of skilly there.  One little thing they lack—­those palaces.  It is understanding of the ’uman heart.  In them tame birds pluck wild birds naked.

Wellwyn.  They mean well.

Ferrand.  Ah!  Monsieur, I am loafer, waster—­what you like—­for all that [bitterly] poverty is my only crime.  If I were rich, should I not be simply veree original, ’ighly respected, with soul above commerce, travelling to see the world?  And that young girl, would she not be “that charming ladee,” “veree chic, you know!” And the old Tims—­good old-fashioned gentleman—­drinking his liquor well.  Eh! bien—­what are we now?  Dark beasts, despised by all.  That is life, Monsieur. [He stares into the fire.]

Wellwyn.  We’re our own enemies, Ferrand.  I can afford it—­you can’t.  Quite true!

Ferrand. [Earnestly.] Monsieur, do you know this?  You are the sole being that can do us good—­we hopeless ones.

Wellwyn. [Shaking his head.] Not a bit of it; I’m hopeless too.

Ferrand. [Eagerly.] Monsieur, it is just that.  You understand.  When we are with you we feel something—­here—­[he touches his heart.] If I had one prayer to make, it would be, Good God, give me to understand!  Those sirs, with their theories, they can clean our skins and chain our ’abits—­that soothes for them the aesthetic sense; it gives them too their good little importance.  But our spirits they cannot touch, for they nevare understand.  Without that, Monsieur, all is dry as a parched skin of orange.

Wellwyn.  Don’t be so bitter.  Think of all the work they do!

Ferrand.  Monsieur, of their industry I say nothing.  They do a good work while they attend with their theories to the sick and the tame old, and the good unfortunate deserving.  Above all to the little children.  But, Monsieur, when all is done, there are always us hopeless ones.  What can they do with me, Monsieur, with that girl, or with that old man?  Ah!  Monsieur, we, too, ’ave our qualities, we others—­it wants you courage to undertake a career like mine, or like that young girl’s.  We wild ones—­we know a thousand times more of life than ever will those sirs.  They waste their time trying to make rooks white.  Be kind to us if you will, or let us alone like Mees Ann, but do not try to change our skins.  Leave us to live, or leave us to die when we like in the free air.  If you do not wish of us, you have but to shut your pockets and—­your doors—­we shall die the faster.