[He draws closer to the fire, spreading his fingers to the
     flame.  And while he is speaking, through the doorway Mrs.
     Megan creeps in to listen.]

Ferrand. [Speaking on into the fire.] And I saw, Monsieur, so plain, that I should be vagabond all my days, and my days short, I dying in the end the death of a dog.  I saw it all in my fever—­ clear as that flame—­there was nothing for us others, but the herb of death. [Wellwyn takes his arm and presses it.] And so, Monsieur, I wished to die.  I told no one of my fever.  I lay out on the ground—­it was verree cold.  But they would not let me die on the roads of their parishes—­they took me to an Institution, Monsieur, I looked in their eyes while I lay there, and I saw more clear than the blue heaven that they thought it best that I should die, although they would not let me.  Then Monsieur, naturally my spirit rose, and I said:  “So much the worse for you.  I will live a little more.”  One is made like that!  Life is sweet, Monsieur.

Wellwyn.  Yes, Ferrand; Life is sweet.

Ferrand.  That little girl you had here, Monsieur [Wellwyn nods.] in her too there is something of wild-savage.  She must have joy of life.  I have seen her since I came back.  She has embraced the life of joy.  It is not quite the same thing. [He lowers his voice.] She is lost, Monsieur, as a stone that sinks in water.  I can see, if she cannot. [As Wellwyn makes a movement of distress.] Oh!  I am not to blame for that, Monsieur.  It had well begun before I knew her.

Wellwyn.  Yes, yes—­I was afraid of it, at the time.

     [Mrs. Megan turns silently, and slips away.]

FEERRAND.  I do my best for her, Monsieur, but look at me!  Besides, I am not good for her—­it is not good for simple souls to be with those who see things clear.  For the great part of mankind, to see anything—­is fatal.

Wellwyn.  Even for you, it seems.

Ferrand.  No, Monsieur.  To be so near to death has done me good; I shall not lack courage any more till the wind blows on my grave.  Since I saw you, Monsieur, I have been in three Institutions.  They are palaces.  One may eat upon the floor—­though it is true—­for Kings—­they eat too much of skilly there.  One little thing they lack—­those palaces.  It is understanding of the ’uman heart.  In them tame birds pluck wild birds naked.

Wellwyn.  They mean well.

Ferrand.  Ah!  Monsieur, I am loafer, waster—­what you like—­for all that [bitterly] poverty is my only crime.  If I were rich, should I not be simply veree original, ’ighly respected, with soul above commerce, travelling to see the world?  And that young girl, would she not be “that charming ladee,” “veree chic, you know!” And the old Tims—­good old-fashioned gentleman—­drinking his liquor well.  Eh! bien—­what are we now?  Dark beasts, despised by all.  That is life, Monsieur. [He stares into the fire.]