Ann.  Yes, you can sweep out that little room. [She points to the model’s room.] There’s a broom in there.

Timson. [Disagreeably surprised.] Certainly; never make bones about a little extra—­never ’ave in all me life.  Do it at onsh, I will. [He moves across to the model’s room at that peculiar broad gait so perfectly adjusted to his habits.] You quite understand me —­couldn’t bear to ’ave anything on me that wasn’t mine.

     [He passes out.]

Ann.  Old fraud!

Wellwyn.  “In” and “on.”  Mark my words, he’ll restore the—­bottles.

Bertley.  But, my dear Wellwyn, that is stealing.

Wellwyn.  We all have our discrepancies, Vicar.

Ann.  Daddy!  Discrepancies!

Wellwyn.  Well, Ann, my theory is that as regards solids Timson’s an Individualist, but as regards liquids he’s a Socialist . . . or ‘vice versa’, according to taste.

Bertley.  No, no, we mustn’t joke about it. [Gravely.] I do think he should be spoken to.

Wellwyn.  Yes, but not by me.

Bertley.  Surely you’re the proper person.

Wellwyn. [Shaking his head.] It was my rum, Vicar.  Look so personal.

     [There sound a number of little tat-tat knocks.]

Wellwyn.  Isn’t that the Professor’s knock?

[While Ann sits down to make tea, he goes to the door and opens it.  There, dressed in an ulster, stands a thin, clean-shaved man, with a little hollow sucked into either cheek, who, taking off a grey squash hat, discloses a majestically bald forehead, which completely dominates all that comes below it.]

Wellwyn.  Come in, Professor!  So awfully good of you!  You know Canon Bentley, I think?

Calway.  Ah!  How d’you do?

Wellwyn.  Your opinion will be invaluable, Professor.

Ann.  Tea, Professor Calway?

     [They have assembled round the tea table.]

Calway.  Thank you; no tea; milk.

Wellwyn.  Rum?

     [He pours rum into CALWAY’s milk.]

Calway.  A little-thanks! [Turning to Ann.] You were going to show me some one you’re trying to rescue, or something, I think.

Ann.  Oh!  Yes.  He’ll be here directly—­simply perfect rotter.

Calway. [Smiling.] Really!  Ah!  I think you said he was a congenital?

Wellwyn. [With great interest.] What!

Ann. [Low.] Daddy! [To Calway.] Yes; I—­I think that’s what you call him.

Calway.  Not old?

Ann.  No; and quite healthy—­a vagabond.

Calway. [Sipping.] I see!  Yes.  Is it, do you think chronic unemployment with a vagrant tendency?  Or would it be nearer the mark to say:  Vagrancy——­