Wellwyn.  Ah! do.

[The humble-men go out.  There is the sound of horses being started, and the butt end of the van disappears.  Wellwyn stays on his stool, smoking and brooding over the fare.  The open doorway is darkened by a figure.  Canon Bertley is standing there.]

Bertley.  Wellwyn! [Wellwyn turns and rises.] It’s ages since I saw you.  No idea you were moving.  This is very dreadful.

Wellwyn.  Yes, Ann found this—­too exposed.  That tall house in Flight Street—­we’re going there.  Seventh floor.

Bertley.  Lift?

     [Wellwyn shakes his head.]

Bertley.  Dear me!  No lift?  Fine view, no doubt. [Wellwyn nods.] You’ll be greatly missed.

Wellwyn.  So Ann thinks.  Vicar, what’s become of that little flower-seller I was painting at Christmas?  You took her into service.

Bertley.  Not we—­exactly!  Some dear friends of ours.  Painful subject!

Wellwyn.  Oh!

Bertley.  Yes.  She got the footman into trouble.

Wellwyn.  Did she, now?

Bertley.  Disappointing.  I consulted with Calway, and he advised me to try a certain institution.  We got her safely in—­excellent place; but, d’you know, she broke out three weeks ago.  And since—­ I’ve heard [he holds his hands up] hopeless, I’m afraid—­quite!

Wellwyn.  I thought I saw her last night.  You can’t tell me her address, I suppose?

Bertley. [Shaking his head.] The husband too has quite passed out of my ken.  He betted on horses, you remember.  I’m sometimes tempted to believe there’s nothing for some of these poor folk but to pray for death.

     [Ann has entered from the house.  Her hair hangs from under a
     knitted cap.  She wears a white wool jersey, and a loose silk
     scarf.]

Bertley.  Ah!  Ann.  I was telling your father of that poor little Mrs. Megan.

Ann.  Is she dead?

Bertley.  Worse I fear.  By the way—­what became of her accomplice?

Ann.  We haven’t seen him since. [She looks searchingly at
Wellwyn.] At least—­have you—­Daddy?

Wellwyn. [Rather hurt.] No, my dear; I have not.

Bertley.  And the—­old gentleman who drank the rum?

Ann.  He got fourteen days.  It was the fifth time.

Bertley.  Dear me!

Ann.  When he came out he got more drunk than ever.  Rather a score for Professor Calway, wasn’t it?

Bertley.  I remember.  He and Sir Thomas took a kindly interest in the old fellow.

Ann.  Yes, they fell over him.  The Professor got him into an
Institution.

Bertley.  Indeed!