Ferrand.  Yes.  You were born loving pleasure.  Is it not?  You see, you cannot say, No.  All of us, we have our fates.  Give me your hand. [He kneels down and takes her hand.] In each of us there is that against which we cannot struggle.  Yes, yes!

     [He holds her hand, and turns it over between his own. 
     Mrs. Megan remains stolid, half fascinated, half-reluctant.]

Timson. [Flickering into consciousness.] Be’ave yourselves!  Yer crimson canary birds!

     [Mrs. Megan would withdraw her hand, but cannot.]

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

     [Timson relapses into comatosity, upsetting his glass, which
     falls with a crash.]

Mrs. Megan.  Let go my hand, please!

Ferrand. [Relinquishing it, and staring into the fore gravely.] There is one thing I have never done—­’urt a woman—­that is hardly in my character. [Then, drawing a little closer, he looks into her face.] Tell me, Ma’moiselle, what is it you think of all day long?

Mrs. Megan.  I dunno—­lots, I thinks of.

Ferrand.  Shall I tell you? [Her eyes remain fixed on his, the strangeness of him preventing her from telling him to “get along.”  He goes on in his ironic voice.] It is of the streets—­the lights—­ the faces—­it is of all which moves, and is warm—­it is of colour—­it is [he brings his face quite close to hers] of Love.  That is for you what the road is for me.  That is for you what the rum is for that old—­[He jerks his thumb back at Timson.  Then bending swiftly forward to the girl.] See!  I kiss you—­Ah!

[He draws her forward off the stool.  There is a little struggle, then she resigns her lips.  The little stool, overturned, falls with a clatter.  They spring up, and move apart.  The door opens and Ann enters from the house in a blue dressing-gown, with her hair loose, and a candle held high above her head.  Taking in the strange half-circle round the stove, she recoils.  Then, standing her ground, calls in a voice sharpened by fright:  “Daddy—­Daddy!”]

Timson. [Stirring uneasily, and struggling to his feet.] All right!  I’m comin’!

Ferrand.  Have no fear, Madame!

[In the silence that follows, a clock begins loudly striking twelve.  Ann remains, as if carved in atone, her eyes fastened on the strangers.  There is the sound of someone falling downstairs, and Wellwyn appears, also holding a candle above his head.]

Ann.  Look!

Wellwyn.  Yes, yes, my dear!  It—­it happened.

Ann. [With a sort of groan.] Oh!  Daddy!

     [In the renewed silence, the church clock ceases to chime.]

Ferrand. [Softly, in his ironic voice.] He is come, Monsieur!  ’Appy
Christmas!  Bon Noel!