[There is the sound of tapping on glass.  Against the window-pane is pressed the face of a man.  Wellwyn motions to him to go away.  He does not go, but continues tapping.  Wellwyn opens the door.  There enters a square old man, with a red, pendulous jawed, shaking face under a snow besprinkled bowler hat.  He is holding out a visiting card with tremulous hand.]

Wellwyn.  Who’s that?  Who are you?

Timson. [In a thick, hoarse, shaking voice.] ’Appy to see you, sir; we ’ad a talk this morning.  Timson—­I give you me name.  You invited of me, if ye remember.

Wellwyn.  It’s a little late, really.

Timson.  Well, ye see, I never expected to ’ave to call on yer.  I was ‘itched up all right when I spoke to yer this mornin’, but bein’ Christmas, things ’ave took a turn with me to-day. [He speaks with increasing thickness.] I’m reg’lar disgusted—­not got the price of a bed abaht me.  Thought you wouldn’t like me to be delicate—­not at my age.

Wellwyn. [With a mechanical and distracted dive of his hands into his pockets.] The fact is, it so happens I haven’t a copper on me.

Timson. [Evidently taking this for professional refusal.] Wouldn’t arsk you if I could ’elp it.  ’Ad to do with ’orses all me life.  It’s this ’ere cold I’m frightened of.  I’m afraid I’ll go to sleep.

Wellwyn.  Well, really, I——­

Timson.  To be froze to death—­I mean—­it’s awkward.

Wellwyn. [Puzzled and unhappy.] Well—­come in a moment, and let’s—­ think it out.  Have some tea!

     [He pours out the remains of the tea, and finding there is not
     very much, adds rum rather liberally.  Timson, who walks a
     little wide at the knees, steadying his gait, has followed.]

Timson. [Receiving the drink.] Yer ’ealth.  ’Ere’s—­soberiety! [He applies the drink to his lips with shaking hand.  Agreeably surprised.] Blimey!  Thish yer tea’s foreign, ain’t it?

Ferrand. [Reappearing from behind the screen in his new clothes of which the trousers stop too soon.] With a needle, Monsieur, I would soon have with what to make face against the world.

Wellwyn.  Too short!  Ah!

     [He goes to the dais on which stands ANN’s workbasket, and takes
     from it a needle and cotton.]

     [While he is so engaged Ferrand is sizing up old Timson, as one
     dog will another.  The old man, glass in hand, seems to have
     lapsed into coma.]

Ferrand. [Indicating Timson] Monsieur!

     [He makes the gesture of one drinking, and shakes his head.]

Wellwyn. [Handing him the needle and cotton.] Um!  Afraid so!

     [They approach Timson, who takes no notice.]