Ferrand. [Shrugging his ragged shoulders.] One is not yet Rothschild.

Wellwyn. [Sympathetically.] No. [Yielding to memory.] We talked philosophy.

Ferrand.  I have not yet changed my opinion.  We other vagabonds, we are exploited by the bourgeois.  This is always my idea, Monsieur.

Wellwyn.  Yes—­not quite the general view, perhaps!  Well——­ [Heartily.] Come in!  Very glad to see you again.

Ferrand. [Brushing his arms over his eyes.] Pardon, Monsieur—­your goodness—­I am a little weak. [He opens his coat, and shows a belt drawn very tight over his ragged shirt.] I tighten him one hole for each meal, during two days now.  That gives you courage.

Wellwyn. [With cooing sounds, pouring out tea, and adding rum.] Have some of this.  It’ll buck you up. [He watches the young man drink.]

Ferrand. [Becoming a size larger.] Sometimes I think that I will never succeed to dominate my life, Monsieur—­though I have no vices, except that I guard always the aspiration to achieve success.  But I will not roll myself under the machine of existence to gain a nothing every day.  I must find with what to fly a little.

Wellwyn. [Delicately.] Yes; yes—­I remember, you found it difficult to stay long in any particular—­yes.

Ferrand. [Proudly.] In one little corner?  No—­Monsieur—­never!  That is not in my character.  I must see life.

Wellwyn.  Quite, quite!  Have some cake?

     [He cuts cake.]

Ferrand.  In your country they say you cannot eat the cake and have it.  But one must always try, Monsieur; one must never be content. [Refusing the cake.] ‘Grand merci’, but for the moment I have no stomach—­I have lost my stomach now for two days.  If I could smoke, Monsieur! [He makes the gesture of smoking.]

Wellwyn.  Rather! [Handing his tobacco pouch.] Roll yourself one.

Ferrand. [Rapidly rolling a cigarette.] If I had not found you, Monsieur—­I would have been a little hole in the river to-night—­ I was so discouraged. [He inhales and puffs a long luxurious whif of smoke.  Very bitterly.] Life! [He disperses the puff of smoke with his finger, and stares before him.] And to think that in a few minutes he will be born!  Monsieur! [He gazes intently at Wellwyn.] The world would reproach you for your goodness to me.

Wellwyn. [Looking uneasily at the door into the house.] You think so?  Ah!

Ferrand.  Monsieur, if he himself were on earth now, there would be a little heap of gentlemen writing to the journals every day to call Him sloppee sentimentalist!  And what is veree funny, these gentlemen they would all be most strong Christians. [He regards Wellwyn deeply.] But that will not trouble you, Monsieur; I saw well from the first that you are no Christian.  You have so kind a face.