Mrs. Megan. [Dully.] I seen trouble since.

Wellwyn.  Trouble!  Have some tea?

     [He looks anxiously at the door into the house, then goes
     quickly to the table, and pours out a glass of tea, putting rum
     into it.]

Wellwyn. [Handing her the tea.] Keeps the cold out!  Drink it off!

[Mrs. Megan drinks it of, chokes a little, and almost immediately seems to get a size larger.  Wellwyn watches her with his head held on one side, and a smile broadening on his face.]

Wellwyn.  Cure for all evils, um?

Mrs. Megan.  It warms you. [She smiles.]

Wellwyn. [Smiling back, and catching himself out.] Well!  You know,
I oughtn’t.

Mrs. Megan. [Conscious of the disruption of his personality, and withdrawing into her tragic abyss.] I wouldn’t ’a come, but you told me if I wanted an ’and——­

Wellwyn. [Gradually losing himself in his own nature.] Let me see—­corner of Flight Street, wasn’t it?

Mrs. Megan. [With faint eagerness.] Yes, sir, an’ I told you about me vi’lets—­it was a luvly spring-day.

Wellwyn.  Beautiful!  Beautiful!  Birds singing, and the trees, &c.!  We had quite a talk.  You had a baby with you.

Mrs. Megan.  Yes.  I got married since then.

Wellwyn.  Oh!  Ah!  Yes! [Cheerfully.] And how’s the baby?

Mrs. Megan. [Turning to stone.] I lost her.

Wellwyn.  Oh! poor—–­ Um!

Mrs. Megan. [Impassive.] You said something abaht makin’ a picture of me. [With faint eagerness.] So I thought I might come, in case you’d forgotten.

Wellwyn. [Looking at, her intently.] Things going badly?

Mrs. Megan. [Stripping the sacking off her basket.] I keep ’em covered up, but the cold gets to ’em.  Thruppence—­that’s all I’ve took.

Wellwyn.  Ho!  Tt!  Tt! [He looks into the basket.] Christmas, too!

Mrs. Megan.  They’re dead.

Wellwyn. [Drawing in his breath.] Got a good husband?

Mrs. Megan.  He plays cards.

Wellwyn.  Oh, Lord!  And what are you doing out—­with a cold like that? [He taps his chest.]

Mrs. Megan.  We was sold up this morning—­he’s gone off with ’is mates.  Haven’t took enough yet for a night’s lodgin’.

Wellwyn. [Correcting a spasmodic dive into his pockets.] But who buys flowers at this time of night?

     [Mrs. Megan looks at him, and faintly smiles.]

Wellwyn. [Rumpling his hair.] Saints above us!  Here!  Come to the fire!

     [She follows him to the fire.  He shuts the street door.]