Wellwyn.  Quite, quite!  Have some cake?

     [He cuts cake.]

Ferrand.  In your country they say you cannot eat the cake and have it.  But one must always try, Monsieur; one must never be content. [Refusing the cake.] ‘Grand merci’, but for the moment I have no stomach—­I have lost my stomach now for two days.  If I could smoke, Monsieur! [He makes the gesture of smoking.]

Wellwyn.  Rather! [Handing his tobacco pouch.] Roll yourself one.

Ferrand. [Rapidly rolling a cigarette.] If I had not found you, Monsieur—­I would have been a little hole in the river to-night—­ I was so discouraged. [He inhales and puffs a long luxurious whif of smoke.  Very bitterly.] Life! [He disperses the puff of smoke with his finger, and stares before him.] And to think that in a few minutes he will be born!  Monsieur! [He gazes intently at Wellwyn.] The world would reproach you for your goodness to me.

Wellwyn. [Looking uneasily at the door into the house.] You think so?  Ah!

Ferrand.  Monsieur, if he himself were on earth now, there would be a little heap of gentlemen writing to the journals every day to call Him sloppee sentimentalist!  And what is veree funny, these gentlemen they would all be most strong Christians. [He regards Wellwyn deeply.] But that will not trouble you, Monsieur; I saw well from the first that you are no Christian.  You have so kind a face.

Wellwyn.  Oh!  Indeed!

Ferrand.  You have not enough the Pharisee in your character.  You do not judge, and you are judged.

     [He stretches his limbs as if in pain.]

Wellwyn.  Are you in pain?

Ferrand.  I ’ave a little the rheumatism.

Wellwyn.  Wet through, of course! [Glancing towards the house.] Wait a bit!  I wonder if you’d like these trousers; they’ve—­er—­they’re not quite——­

[He passes through the door into the house.  Ferrand stands at the fire, with his limbs spread as it were to embrace it, smoking with abandonment.  Wellwyn returns stealthily, dressed in a Jaeger dressing-gown, and bearing a pair of drawers, his trousers, a pair of slippers, and a sweater.]

Wellwyn. [Speaking in a low voice, for the door is still open.] Can you make these do for the moment?

Ferrand.  ‘Je vous remercie’, Monsieur. [Pointing to the screen.] May I retire?

Wellwyn.  Yes, yes.

     [Ferrand goes behind the screen.  Wellwyn closes the door into
     the house, then goes to the window to draw the curtains.  He
     suddenly recoils and stands petrified with doubt.]

Wellwyn.  Good Lord!