Wellwyn.  Oh!  Indeed!

Ferrand.  You have not enough the Pharisee in your character.  You do not judge, and you are judged.

     [He stretches his limbs as if in pain.]

Wellwyn.  Are you in pain?

Ferrand.  I ’ave a little the rheumatism.

Wellwyn.  Wet through, of course! [Glancing towards the house.] Wait a bit!  I wonder if you’d like these trousers; they’ve—­er—­they’re not quite——­

[He passes through the door into the house.  Ferrand stands at the fire, with his limbs spread as it were to embrace it, smoking with abandonment.  Wellwyn returns stealthily, dressed in a Jaeger dressing-gown, and bearing a pair of drawers, his trousers, a pair of slippers, and a sweater.]

Wellwyn. [Speaking in a low voice, for the door is still open.] Can you make these do for the moment?

Ferrand.  ‘Je vous remercie’, Monsieur. [Pointing to the screen.] May I retire?

Wellwyn.  Yes, yes.

     [Ferrand goes behind the screen.  Wellwyn closes the door into
     the house, then goes to the window to draw the curtains.  He
     suddenly recoils and stands petrified with doubt.]

Wellwyn.  Good Lord!

[There is the sound of tapping on glass.  Against the window-pane is pressed the face of a man.  Wellwyn motions to him to go away.  He does not go, but continues tapping.  Wellwyn opens the door.  There enters a square old man, with a red, pendulous jawed, shaking face under a snow besprinkled bowler hat.  He is holding out a visiting card with tremulous hand.]

Wellwyn.  Who’s that?  Who are you?

Timson. [In a thick, hoarse, shaking voice.] ’Appy to see you, sir; we ’ad a talk this morning.  Timson—­I give you me name.  You invited of me, if ye remember.

Wellwyn.  It’s a little late, really.

Timson.  Well, ye see, I never expected to ’ave to call on yer.  I was ‘itched up all right when I spoke to yer this mornin’, but bein’ Christmas, things ’ave took a turn with me to-day. [He speaks with increasing thickness.] I’m reg’lar disgusted—­not got the price of a bed abaht me.  Thought you wouldn’t like me to be delicate—­not at my age.

Wellwyn. [With a mechanical and distracted dive of his hands into his pockets.] The fact is, it so happens I haven’t a copper on me.

Timson. [Evidently taking this for professional refusal.] Wouldn’t arsk you if I could ’elp it.  ’Ad to do with ’orses all me life.  It’s this ’ere cold I’m frightened of.  I’m afraid I’ll go to sleep.

Wellwyn.  Well, really, I——­

Timson.  To be froze to death—­I mean—­it’s awkward.

Wellwyn. [Puzzled and unhappy.] Well—­come in a moment, and let’s—­ think it out.  Have some tea!