[Timson, momentarily roused from slumber on the doorstep, sits
     up.]

Hoxton. [Struggling to his knees.] Damnation!

Calway. [Sitting.] How simultaneous!

     [Wellwyn and Ferrand approach hastily.]

Ferrand. [Pointing to Timson.] Monsieur, it was true, it seems. 
They had lost sight of the individual.

     [A Policeman has appeared under the street lamp.  He picks up
     Hoxton’s hat.]

Constable.  Anything wrong, sir?

Hoxton. [Recovering his feet.] Wrong?  Great Scott!  Constable!  Why do you let things lie about in the street like this?  Look here, Wellyn!

     [They all scrutinize Timson.]

Wellwyn.  It’s only the old fellow whose reform you were discussing.

Hoxton.  How did he come here?

Constable.  Drunk, sir. [Ascertaining Timson to be in the street.]
Just off the premises, by good luck.  Come along, father.

Timson. [Assisted to his feet-drowsily.] Cert’nly, by no means; take my arm.

     [They move from the doorway.  Hoxton and Calway re-enter, and
     go towards the fire.]

Ann. [Entering from the house.] What’s happened?

Calway.  Might we have a brush?

Hoxton. [Testily.] Let it dry!

     [He moves to the fire and stands before it.  Professor Calway
     following stands a little behind him.  Ann returning begins to
     brush the PROFESSOR’s sleeve.]

Wellwyn. [Turning from the door, where he has stood looking after the receding Timson.] Poor old Timson!

Ferrand. [Softly.] Must be philosopher, Monsieur!  They will but run him in a little.

     [From the model’s room Mrs. Megan has come out, shepherded by
     canon Bertley.]

Bertley.  Let’s see, your Christian name is——.

Mrs. Megan.  Guinevere.

Bertley.  Oh!  Ah!  Ah!  Ann, take Gui—­take our little friend into the study a minute:  I am going to put her into service.  We shall make a new woman of her, yet.

Ann. [Handing canon Bertley the brush, and turning to Mrs. Megan.]
Come on!

     [She leads into the house, and Mrs. Megan follows Stolidly.]

Bertley. [Brushing Calway’s back.] Have you fallen?

Calway.  Yes.

Bertley.  Dear me!  How was that?

Hoxton.  That old ruffian drunk on the doorstep.  Hope they’ll give him a sharp dose!  These rag-tags!

     [He looks round, and his angry eyes light by chance on Ferrand.]