[A sputter of snow is blown in his face.  A voice says:  “Monsieur, pardon!” Wellwyn recoils spasmodically.  A figure moves from the lamp-post to the doorway.  He is seen to be young and to have ragged clothes.  He speaks again:  “You do not remember me, Monsieur?  My name is Ferrand—­it was in Paris, in the Champs-Elysees—­by the fountain . . . .  When you came to the door, Monsieur—­I am not made of iron . . . .  Tenez, here is your card I have never lost it.”  He holds out to Wellwyn an old and dirty wing card.  As inch by inch he has advanced into the doorway, the light from within falls on him, a tall gaunt young pagan with fair hair and reddish golden stubble of beard, a long ironical nose a little to one side, and large, grey, rather prominent eyes.  There is a certain grace in his figure and movements; his clothes are nearly dropping off him.]

Wellwyn. [Yielding to a pleasant memory.] Ah! yes.  By the fountain.  I was sitting there, and you came and ate a roll, and drank the water.

Ferrand. [With faint eagerness.] My breakfast.  I was in poverty—­ veree bad off.  You gave me ten francs.  I thought I had a little the right [Wellwyn makes a movement of disconcertion] seeing you said that if I came to England——­

Wellwyn.  Um!  And so you’ve come?

Ferrand.  It was time that I consolidated my fortunes, Monsieur.

Wellwyn.  And you—­have——­

     [He stops embarrassed.]

Ferrand. [Shrugging his ragged shoulders.] One is not yet Rothschild.

Wellwyn. [Sympathetically.] No. [Yielding to memory.] We talked philosophy.

Ferrand.  I have not yet changed my opinion.  We other vagabonds, we are exploited by the bourgeois.  This is always my idea, Monsieur.

Wellwyn.  Yes—­not quite the general view, perhaps!  Well——­ [Heartily.] Come in!  Very glad to see you again.

Ferrand. [Brushing his arms over his eyes.] Pardon, Monsieur—­your goodness—­I am a little weak. [He opens his coat, and shows a belt drawn very tight over his ragged shirt.] I tighten him one hole for each meal, during two days now.  That gives you courage.

Wellwyn. [With cooing sounds, pouring out tea, and adding rum.] Have some of this.  It’ll buck you up. [He watches the young man drink.]

Ferrand. [Becoming a size larger.] Sometimes I think that I will never succeed to dominate my life, Monsieur—­though I have no vices, except that I guard always the aspiration to achieve success.  But I will not roll myself under the machine of existence to gain a nothing every day.  I must find with what to fly a little.

Wellwyn. [Delicately.] Yes; yes—­I remember, you found it difficult to stay long in any particular—­yes.

Ferrand. [Proudly.] In one little corner?  No—­Monsieur—­never!  That is not in my character.  I must see life.