Wellwyn. [With agitation.] But that, you know—­we can’t do—­now can we?

Ferrand.  If you cannot, how is it our fault?  The harm we do to others—­is it so much?  If I am criminal, dangerous—­shut me up!  I would not pity myself—­nevare.  But we in whom something moves—­ like that flame, Monsieur, that cannot keep still—­we others—­we are not many—­that must have motion in our lives, do not let them make us prisoners, with their theories, because we are not like them—­it is life itself they would enclose! [He draws up his tattered figure, then bending over the fire again.] I ask your pardon; I am talking.  If I could smoke, Monsieur!

     [Wellwyn hands him a tobacco pouch; and he rolls a cigarette
     with his yellow-Stained fingers.]

Ferrand.  The good God made me so that I would rather walk a whole month of nights, hungry, with the stars, than sit one single day making round business on an office stool!  It is not to my advantage.  I cannot help it that I am a vagabond.  What would you have?  It is stronger than me. [He looks suddenly at Wellwyn.] Monsieur, I say to you things I have never said.

Wellwyn. [Quietly.] Go on, go on. [There is silence.]

Ferrand. [Suddenly.] Monsieur!  Are you really English?  The English are so civilised.

Wellwyn.  And am I not?

Ferrand.  You treat me like a brother.

     [Wellwyn has turned towards the street door at a sound of feet,
     and the clamour of voices.]

Timson. [From the street.] Take her in ’ere.  I knows ’im.

[Through the open doorway come a police constable and a loafer, bearing between them the limp white faced form of Mrs. Megan, hatless and with drowned hair, enveloped in the policeman’s waterproof.  Some curious persons bring up the rear, jostling in the doorway, among whom is Timson carrying in his hands the policeman’s dripping waterproof leg pieces.]

Ferrand. [Starting forward.] Monsieur, it is that little girl!

Wellwyn.  What’s happened?  Constable!  What’s happened!

     [The constable and loafer have laid the body down on the dais;
     with Wellwyn and Ferrand they stand bending over her.]

Constable.  ’Tempted sooicide, sir; but she hadn’t been in the water ’arf a minute when I got hold of her. [He bends lower.] Can’t understand her collapsin’ like this.

Wellwyn. [Feeling her heart.] I don’t feel anything.

Ferrand. [In a voice sharpened by emotion.] Let me try, Monsieur.

Constable. [Touching his arm.] You keep off, my lad.

Wellwyn.  No, constable—­let him.  He’s her friend.

Constable. [Releasing Ferrand—­to the loafer.] Here you!  Cut off for a doctor-sharp now! [He pushes back the curious persons.] Now then, stand away there, please—­we can’t have you round the body.  Keep back—­Clear out, now!