Ferrand. [Gently.] It is an old cabby, is it not, Monsieur?  ’Ceux sont tous des buveurs’.

Wellwyn. [Concerned at the old man’s stupefaction.] Now, my old friend, sit down a moment. [They manoeuvre Timson to the settle.] Will you smoke?

Timson. [In a drowsy voice.] Thank ’ee-smoke pipe of ’baccer.  Old ‘orse—­standin’ abaht in th’ cold.

     [He relapses into coma.]

Ferrand. [With a click of his tongue.] ‘Il est parti’.

Wellwyn. [Doubtfully.] He hasn’t really left a horse outside, do you think?

Ferrand.  Non, non, Monsieur—­no ’orse.  He is dreaming.  I know very well that state of him—­that catches you sometimes.  It is the warmth sudden on the stomach.  He will speak no more sense to-night.  At the most, drink, and fly a little in his past.

Wellwyn.  Poor old buffer!

Ferrand.  Touching, is it not, Monsieur?  There are many brave gents among the old cabbies—­they have philosophy—­that comes from ’orses, and from sitting still.

Wellwyn. [Touching TIMSON’s shoulder.] Drenched!

Ferrand.  That will do ’im no ’arm, Monsieur-no ’arm at all.  He is well wet inside, remember—­it is Christmas to-morrow.  Put him a rug, if you will, he will soon steam.

     [Wellwyn takes up ANN’s long red cloak, and wraps it round the
     old man.]

Timson. [Faintly roused.] Tha’s right.  Put—­the rug on th’ old ’orse.

     [He makes a strange noise, and works his head and tongue.]

Wellwyn. [Alarmed.] What’s the matter with him?

Ferrand.  It is nothing, Monsieur; for the moment he thinks ’imself a ’orse.  ‘Il joue “cache-cache,"’ ’ide and seek, with what you call—­ ’is bitt.

Wellwyn.  But what’s to be done with him?  One can’t turn him out in this state.

Ferrand.  If you wish to leave him ’ere, Monsieur, have no fear.  I charge myself with him.

Wellwyn.  Oh! [Dubiously.] You—­er—­I really don’t know, I—­hadn’t contemplated—­You think you could manage if I—­if I went to bed?

Ferrand.  But certainly, Monsieur.

Wellwyn. [Still dubiously.] You—­you’re sure you’ve everything you want?

Ferrand. [Bowing.] ‘Mais oui, Monsieur’.

Wellwyn.  I don’t know what I can do by staying.

Ferrand.  There is nothing you can do, Monsieur.  Have confidence in me.

Wellwyn.  Well-keep the fire up quietly—­very quietly.  You’d better take this coat of mine, too.  You’ll find it precious cold, I expect, about three o’clock. [He hands Ferrand his Ulster.]

Ferrand. [Taking it.] I shall sleep in praying for you, Monsieur.

Wellwyn.  Ah!  Yes!  Thanks!  Well-good-night!  By the way, I shall be down rather early.  Have to think of my household a bit, you know.