Wellwyn.  I—­I rather think I may have tipped them twice.

Ann. [Drily.] Daddy!  If it is the first of April, it’s not necessary to make a fool of oneself.  That’s the last time you ever do these ridiculous things. [Wellwyn eyes her askance.] I’m going to see that you spend your money on yourself.  You needn’t look at me like that!  I mean to.  As soon as I’ve got you away from here, and all—­these——­

Wellwyn.  Don’t rub it in, Ann!

Ann. [Giving him a sudden hug—­then going to the door—­with a sort of triumph.] Deeds, not words, Daddy!

     [She goes out, and the wind catching her scarf blows it out
     beneath her firm young chin.  Wellwyn returning to the fire,
     stands brooding, and gazing at his extinct cigarette.]

Wellwyn. [To himself.] Bad lot—­low type!  No method!  No theory!

[In the open doorway appear Ferrand and Mrs. Megan.  They stand, unseen, looking at him.  Ferrand is more ragged, if possible, than on Christmas Eve.  His chin and cheeks are clothed in a reddish golden beard.  Mrs. MEGAN’s dress is not so woe-begone, but her face is white, her eyes dark-circled.  They whisper.  She slips back into the shadow of the doorway.  Wellwyn turns at the sound, and stares at Ferrand in amazement.]

Ferrand. [Advancing.] Enchanted to see you, Monsieur. [He looks round the empty room.] You are leaving?

Wellwyn. [Nodding—­then taking the young man’s hand.] How goes it?

Ferrand. [Displaying himself, simply.] As you see, Monsieur.  I have done of my best.  It still flies from me.

Wellwyn. [Sadly—­as if against his will.] Ferrand, it will always fly.

     [The young foreigner shivers suddenly from head to foot; then
     controls himself with a great effort.]

Ferrand.  Don’t say that, Monsieur!  It is too much the echo of my heart.

Wellwyn.  Forgive me!  I didn’t mean to pain you.

Ferrand. [Drawing nearer the fire.] That old cabby, Monsieur, you remember—­they tell me, he nearly succeeded to gain happiness the other day.

     [Wellwyn nods.]

Ferrand.  And those Sirs, so interested in him, with their theories?  He has worn them out? [Wellwyn nods.] That goes without saying.  And now they wish for him the lethal chamber.

Wellwyn. [Startled.] How did you know that?

     [There is silence.]

Ferrand. [Staring into the fire.] Monsieur, while I was on the road this time I fell ill of a fever.  It seemed to me in my illness that I saw the truth—­how I was wasting in this world—­I would never be good for any one—­nor any one for me—­all would go by, and I never of it—­fame, and fortune, and peace, even the necessities of life, ever mocking me.