and covered by a scarf.  Leaving the door open, she turns up the electric light and goes to the fire.  She throws of her scarf and long red cloak.  She is dressed in a high evening frock of some soft white material.  Her movements are quick and substantial.  Her face, full of no nonsense, is decided and sincere, with deep-set eyes, and a capable, well-shaped forehead.  Shredding of her gloves she warms her hands.

In the doorway appear the figures of two men.  The first is rather short and slight, with a soft short beard, bright soft eyes, and a crumply face.  Under his squash hat his hair is rather plentiful and rather grey.  He wears an old brown ulster and woollen gloves, and is puffing at a hand-made cigarette.  He is Ann’s father, Wellwyn, the artist.  His companion is a well-wrapped clergyman of medium height and stoutish build, with a pleasant, rosy face, rather shining eyes, and rather chubby clean-shaped lips; in appearance, indeed, a grown-up boy.  He is the Vicar of the parish—­canon Bertley.

Bertley.  My dear Wellwyn, the whole question of reform is full of difficulty.  When you have two men like Professor Calway and Sir Thomas Hoxton taking diametrically opposite points of view, as we’ve seen to-night, I confess, I——­

Wellwyn.  Come in, Vicar, and have some grog.

Bertley.  Not to-night, thanks!  Christmas tomorrow!  Great temptation, though, this room!  Goodnight, Wellwyn; good-night, Ann!

Ann. [Coming from the fire towards the tea-table.] Good-night, Canon Bertley.

     [He goes out, and Wellwyn, shutting the door after him,
     approaches the fire.]

Ann. [Sitting on the little stool, with her back to the fire, and making tea.] Daddy!

Wellwyn.  My dear?

Ann.  You say you liked Professor Calway’s lecture.  Is it going to do you any good, that’s the question?

Wellwyn.  I—­I hope so, Ann.

Ann.  I took you on purpose.  Your charity’s getting simply awful. 
Those two this morning cleared out all my housekeeping money.

Wellwyn.  Um!  Um!  I quite understand your feeling.

Ann.  They both had your card, so I couldn’t refuse—­didn’t know what you’d said to them.  Why don’t you make it a rule never to give your card to anyone except really decent people, and—­picture dealers, of course.

Wellwyn.  My dear, I have—­often.

Ann.  Then why don’t you keep it?  It’s a frightful habit.  You are naughty, Daddy.  One of these days you’ll get yourself into most fearful complications.

Wellwyn.  My dear, when they—­when they look at you?

Ann.  You know the house wants all sorts of things.  Why do you speak to them at all?

Wellwyn.  I don’t—­they speak to me.