Wellwyn.  Am I likely to?

Ann.  I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if it isn’t your only pair. 
D’you know what I live in terror of?

     [Wellwyn gives her a queer and apprehensive look.]

Ann.  That you’ll take them off some day, and give them away in the street.  Have you got any money? [She feels in his coat, and he his trousers—­they find nothing.] Do you know that your pockets are one enormous hole?

Wellwyn.  No!

Ann.  Spiritually.

Wellwyn.  Oh!  Ah!  H’m!

Ann. [Severely.] Now, look here, Daddy! [She takes him by his lapels.] Don’t imagine that it isn’t the most disgusting luxury on your part to go on giving away things as you do!  You know what you really are, I suppose—­a sickly sentimentalist!

Wellwyn. [Breaking away from her, disturbed.] It isn’t sentiment.  It’s simply that they seem to me so—­so—­jolly.  If I’m to give up feeling sort of—­nice in here [he touches his chest] about people—­it doesn’t matter who they are—­then I don’t know what I’m to do.  I shall have to sit with my head in a bag.

Ann.  I think you ought to.

Wellwyn.  I suppose they see I like them—­then they tell me things. 
After that, of course you can’t help doing what you can.

Ann.  Well, if you will love them up!

Wellwyn.  My dear, I don’t want to.  It isn’t them especially—­why, I feel it even with old Calway sometimes.  It’s only Providence that he doesn’t want anything of me—­except to make me like himself—­confound him!

Ann. [Moving towards the door into the house—­impressively.] What you don’t see is that other people aren’t a bit like you.

Wellwyn.  Well, thank God!

Ann.  It’s so old-fashioned too!  I’m going to bed—­I just leave you to your conscience.

Wellwyn.  Oh!

Ann. [Opening the door-severely.] Good-night—­[with a certain weakening] you old—­Daddy!

     [She jumps at him, gives him a hug, and goes out.]

     [Wellwyn stands perfectly still.  He first gazes up at the
     skylight, then down at the floor.  Slowly he begins to shake his
     head, and mutter, as he moves towards the fire.]

Wellwyn.  Bad lot. . . .  Low type—­no backbone, no stability!

[There comes a fluttering knock on the outer door.  As the sound slowly enters his consciousness, he begins to wince, as though he knew, but would not admit its significance.  Then he sits down, covering his ears.  The knocking does not cease.  Wellwyn drops first one, then both hands, rises, and begins to sidle towards the door.  The knocking becomes louder.]

Wellwyn.  Ah dear!  Tt!  Tt!  Tt!