[He has opened the door, and suddenly sees that Ferrand himself is standing there.  Sticking out his lower lip, Timson gives a roll of his jaw and lurches forth into the street.  Owing to a slight miscalculation, his face and raised arms are plainly visible through the window, as he fortifies himself from his battle against the cold.  Ferrand, having closed the door, stands with his thumb acting as pointer towards this spectacle.  He is now remarkably dressed in an artist’s squashy green hat, a frock coat too small for him, a bright blue tie of knitted silk, the grey trousers that were torn, well-worn brown boots, and a tan waistcoat.]

Wellwyn.  What luck to-day?

Ferrand. [With a shrug.] Again I have beaten all London, Monsieur —­not one bite. [Contemplating himself.] I think perhaps, that, for the bourgeoisie, there is a little too much colour in my costume.

Wellwyn. [Contemplating him.] Let’s see—­I believe I’ve an old top hat somewhere.

Ferrand.  Ah!  Monsieur, ‘merci’, but that I could not.  It is scarcely in my character.

Wellwyn.  True!

Ferrand.  I have been to merchants of wine, of tabac, to hotels, to Leicester Square.  I have been to a Society for spreading Christian knowledge—­I thought there I would have a chance perhaps as interpreter.  ‘Toujours meme chose’, we regret, we have no situation for you—­same thing everywhere.  It seems there is nothing doing in this town.

Wellwyn.  I’ve noticed, there never is.

Ferrand.  I was thinking, Monsieur, that in aviation there might be a career for me—­but it seems one must be trained.

Wellwyn.  Afraid so, Ferrand.

Ferrand. [Approaching the picture.] Ah!  You are always working at this.  You will have something of very good there, Monsieur.  You wish to fix the type of wild savage existing ever amongst our high civilisation.  ‘C’est tres chic ca’! [Wellwyn manifests the quiet delight of an English artist actually understood.] In the figures of these good citizens, to whom she offers her flower, you would give the idea of all the cage doors open to catch and make tame the wild bird, that will surely die within.  ‘Tres gentil’!  Believe me, Monsieur, you have there the greatest comedy of life!  How anxious are the tame birds to do the wild birds good. [His voice changes.] For the wild birds it is not funny.  There is in some human souls, Monsieur, what cannot be made tame.

Wellwyn.  I believe you, Ferrand.

     [The face of a young man appears at the window, unseen. 
     Suddenly Ann opens the door leading to the house.]

Ann.  Daddy—­I want you.

Wellwyn. [To Ferrand.] Excuse me a minute!