Ann. [Blankly.] Oh! [As Wellwyn strikes a match.] The samovar is lighted. [Taking up the nearly empty decanter of rum and going to the cupboard.] It’s all right.  He won’t.

Wellwyn.  We’ll hope not.

     [He turns back to his picture.]

Ann. [At the cupboard.] Daddy!

Wellwyn.  Hi!

Ann.  There were three bottles.

Wellwyn.  Oh!

Ann.  Well!  Now there aren’t any.

Wellwyn. [Abstracted.] That’ll be Timson.

Ann. [With real horror.] But it’s awful!

Wellwyn.  It is, my dear.

Ann.  In seven days.  To say nothing of the stealing.

Wellwyn. [Vexed.] I blame myself-very much.  Ought to have kept it locked up.

Ann.  You ought to keep him locked up!

     [There is heard a mild but authoritative knock.]

Wellwyn.  Here’s the Vicar!

Ann.  What are you going to do about the rum?

Wellwyn. [Opening the door to Canon Bertley.] Come in, Vicar! 
Happy New Year!

Bertley.  Same to you!  Ah!  Ann!  I’ve got into touch with her young husband—­he’s coming round.

Ann. [Still a little out of her plate.] Thank Go—–­Moses!

Bertley. [Faintly surprised.] From what I hear he’s not really a bad youth.  Afraid he bets on horses.  The great thing, Wellwyn, with those poor fellows is to put your finger on the weak spot.

Ann. [To herself-gloomily.] That’s not difficult.  What would you do, Canon Bertley, with a man who’s been drinking father’s rum?

Bertley.  Remove the temptation, of course.

Wellwyn.  He’s done that.

Bertley.  Ah!  Then—­[Wellwyn and Ann hang on his words] then I should—­er—­

Ann. [Abruptly.] Remove him.

Bertley.  Before I say that, Ann, I must certainly see the individual.

Wellwyn. [Pointing to the window.] There he is!

     [In the failing light Timson’s face is indeed to be seen
     pressed against the window pane.]

Ann.  Daddy, I do wish you’d have thick glass put in.  It’s so disgusting to be spied at! [Wellwyn going quickly to the door, has opened it.] What do you want? [Timson enters with dignity.  He is fuddled.]

Timson. [Slowly.] Arskin’ yer pardon-thought it me duty to come back-found thish yer little brishel on me. [He produces the little paint brush.]

Ann. [In a deadly voice.] Nothing else?

     [Timson accords her a glassy stare.]

Wellwyn. [Taking the brush hastily.] That’ll do, Timson, thanks!

Timson.  As I am ’ere, can I do anything for yer?