Ferrand.  It is the same-veree ’armless.

Mrs. Megan.  What’s that he’s got on ’im?

Ferrand.  It is a coronation robe.  Have no fear, Ma’moiselle.  Veree docile potentate.

Mrs. Megan.  I wouldn’t be afraid of him. [Challenging Ferrand.] I’m afraid o’ you.

Ferrand.  It is because you do not know me, Ma’moiselle.  You are wrong, it is always the unknown you should love.

Mrs. Megan.  I don’t like the way you-speaks to me.

Ferrand.  Ah!  You are a Princess in disguise?

Mrs. Megan.  No fear!

Ferrand.  No?  What is it then you do to make face against the necessities of life?  A living?

Mrs. Megan.  Sells flowers.

Ferrand. [Rolling his eyes.] It is not a career.

Mrs. Megan. [With a touch of devilry.] You don’t know what I do.

Ferrand.  Ma’moiselle, whatever you do is charming.

     [Mrs. Megan looks at him, and slowly smiles.]

Mrs. Megan.  You’re a foreigner.

Ferrand.  It is true.

Mrs. Megan.  What do you do for a livin’?

Ferrand.  I am an interpreter.

Mrs. Megan.  You ain’t very busy, are you?

Ferrand. [With dignity.] At present I am resting.

Mrs. Megan. [Looking at him and smiling.] How did you and ’im come here?

Ferrand.  Ma’moiselle, we would ask you the same question.

Mrs. Megan.  The gentleman let me.  ’E’s funny.

Ferrand.  ‘C’est un ange’ [At Mrs. MEGAN’s blank stare he interprets.] An angel!

Mrs. Megan.  Me luck’s out-that’s why I come.

Ferrand. [Rising.] Ah!  Ma’moiselle!  Luck!  There is the little God who dominates us all.  Look at this old! [He points to Timson.] He is finished.  In his day that old would be doing good business.  He could afford himself—­[He maker a sign of drinking.]—­Then come the motor cars.  All goes—­he has nothing left, only ’is ’abits of a ‘cocher’!  Luck!

Timson. [With a vague gesture—­drowsily.] Kick the foreign beggars out.

Ferrand.  A real Englishman . . . .  And look at me!  My father was merchant of ostrich feathers in Brussels.  If I had been content to go in his business, I would ’ave been rich.  But I was born to roll—­“rolling stone"to voyage is stronger than myself.  Luck! . .  And you, Ma’moiselle, shall I tell your fortune? [He looks in her face.] You were born for ’la joie de vivre’—­to drink the wines of life.  ‘Et vous voila’!  Luck!

     [Though she does not in the least understand what he has said,
     her expression changes to a sort of glee.]