Mrs. Megan.  Shall I put them on again?

Wellwyn.  No, no; there’s a nice warm pair of slippers. [Seeing the steam rising from her.] Why, you’re wet all over.  Here, wait a little!

[He crosses to the door into the house, and after stealthy listening, steps through.  The Girl, like a cat, steals back to the warmth of the fire.  Wellwyn returns with a candle, a canary-coloured bath gown, and two blankets.]

Wellwyn.  Now then! [He precedes her towards the door of the model’s room.] Hsssh! [He opens the door and holds up the candle to show her the room.] Will it do?  There’s a couch.  You’ll find some washing things.  Make yourself quite at home.  See!

     [The Girl, perfectly dumb, passes through with her basket—­and
     her shoes and stockings.  Wellwyn hands her the candle,
     blankets, and bath gown.]

Wellwyn.  Have a good sleep, child!  Forget that you’re alive! [He closes the door, mournfully.] Done it again! [He goes to the table, cuts a large slice of cake, knocks on the door, and hands it in.] Chow-chow! [Then, as he walks away, he sights the opposite door.] Well—­damn it, what could I have done?  Not a farthing on me! [He goes to the street door to shut it, but first opens it wide to confirm himself in his hospitality.] Night like this!

[A sputter of snow is blown in his face.  A voice says:  “Monsieur, pardon!” Wellwyn recoils spasmodically.  A figure moves from the lamp-post to the doorway.  He is seen to be young and to have ragged clothes.  He speaks again:  “You do not remember me, Monsieur?  My name is Ferrand—­it was in Paris, in the Champs-Elysees—­by the fountain . . . .  When you came to the door, Monsieur—­I am not made of iron . . . .  Tenez, here is your card I have never lost it.”  He holds out to Wellwyn an old and dirty wing card.  As inch by inch he has advanced into the doorway, the light from within falls on him, a tall gaunt young pagan with fair hair and reddish golden stubble of beard, a long ironical nose a little to one side, and large, grey, rather prominent eyes.  There is a certain grace in his figure and movements; his clothes are nearly dropping off him.]

Wellwyn. [Yielding to a pleasant memory.] Ah! yes.  By the fountain.  I was sitting there, and you came and ate a roll, and drank the water.

Ferrand. [With faint eagerness.] My breakfast.  I was in poverty—­ veree bad off.  You gave me ten francs.  I thought I had a little the right [Wellwyn makes a movement of disconcertion] seeing you said that if I came to England——­

Wellwyn.  Um!  And so you’ve come?

Ferrand.  It was time that I consolidated my fortunes, Monsieur.

Wellwyn.  And you—­have——­

     [He stops embarrassed.]