Ferrand.  ‘Tres bien, Monsieur’.  I comprehend.  One must well be regular in this life.

Wellwyn. [With a start.] Lord! [He looks at the door of the model’s room.] I’d forgotten——­

Ferrand.  Can I undertake anything, Monsieur?

Wellwyn.  No, no! [He goes to the electric light switch by the outer door.] You won’t want this, will you?

Ferrand.  ‘Merci, Monsieur’.

     [Wellwyn switches off the light.]

Ferrand.  ‘Bon soir, Monsieur’!

Wellwyn.  The devil!  Er—­good-night!

     [He hesitates, rumples his hair, and passes rather suddenly
     away.]

Ferrand. [To himself.] Poor pigeon! [Looking long at old Timson]
‘Espece de type anglais!’

[He sits down in the firelight, curls up a foot on his knee, and taking out a knife, rips the stitching of a turned-up end of trouser, pinches the cloth double, and puts in the preliminary stitch of a new hem—­all with the swiftness of one well-accustomed.  Then, as if hearing a sound behind him, he gets up quickly and slips behind the screen.  Mrs. Megan, attracted by the cessation of voices, has opened the door, and is creeping from the model’s room towards the fire.  She has almost reached it before she takes in the torpid crimson figure of old Timson.  She halts and puts her hand to her chest—­a queer figure in the firelight, garbed in the canary-coloured bath gown and rabbit’s-wool slippers, her black matted hair straggling down on her neck.  Having quite digested the fact that the old man is in a sort of stupor, Mrs. Megan goes close to the fire, and sits on the little stool, smiling sideways at old Timson.  Ferrand, coming quietly up behind, examines her from above, drooping his long nose as if enquiring with it as to her condition in life; then he steps back a yard or two.]

Ferrand. [Gently.] ‘Pardon, Ma’moiselle’.

Mrs. Megan. [Springing to her feet.] Oh!

Ferrand.  All right, all right!  We are brave gents!

Timson. [Faintly roused.] ’Old up, there!

Ferrand.  Trust in me, Ma’moiselle!

     [Mrs. Megan responds by drawing away.]

Ferrand. [Gently.] We must be good comrades.  This asylum—­it is better than a doss-’ouse.

     [He pushes the stool over towards her, and seats himself. 
     Somewhat reassured, Mrs. Megan again sits down.]

Mrs. Megan.  You frightened me.

Timson. [Unexpectedly-in a drowsy tone.] Purple foreigners!

Ferrand.  Pay no attention, Ma’moiselle.  He is a philosopher.

Mrs. Megan.  Oh!  I thought ’e was boozed.

     [They both look at Timson]