Wellwyn.  We’re our own enemies, Ferrand.  I can afford it—­you can’t.  Quite true!

Ferrand. [Earnestly.] Monsieur, do you know this?  You are the sole being that can do us good—­we hopeless ones.

Wellwyn. [Shaking his head.] Not a bit of it; I’m hopeless too.

Ferrand. [Eagerly.] Monsieur, it is just that.  You understand.  When we are with you we feel something—­here—­[he touches his heart.] If I had one prayer to make, it would be, Good God, give me to understand!  Those sirs, with their theories, they can clean our skins and chain our ’abits—­that soothes for them the aesthetic sense; it gives them too their good little importance.  But our spirits they cannot touch, for they nevare understand.  Without that, Monsieur, all is dry as a parched skin of orange.

Wellwyn.  Don’t be so bitter.  Think of all the work they do!

Ferrand.  Monsieur, of their industry I say nothing.  They do a good work while they attend with their theories to the sick and the tame old, and the good unfortunate deserving.  Above all to the little children.  But, Monsieur, when all is done, there are always us hopeless ones.  What can they do with me, Monsieur, with that girl, or with that old man?  Ah!  Monsieur, we, too, ’ave our qualities, we others—­it wants you courage to undertake a career like mine, or like that young girl’s.  We wild ones—­we know a thousand times more of life than ever will those sirs.  They waste their time trying to make rooks white.  Be kind to us if you will, or let us alone like Mees Ann, but do not try to change our skins.  Leave us to live, or leave us to die when we like in the free air.  If you do not wish of us, you have but to shut your pockets and—­your doors—­we shall die the faster.

Wellwyn. [With agitation.] But that, you know—­we can’t do—­now can we?

Ferrand.  If you cannot, how is it our fault?  The harm we do to others—­is it so much?  If I am criminal, dangerous—­shut me up!  I would not pity myself—­nevare.  But we in whom something moves—­ like that flame, Monsieur, that cannot keep still—­we others—­we are not many—­that must have motion in our lives, do not let them make us prisoners, with their theories, because we are not like them—­it is life itself they would enclose! [He draws up his tattered figure, then bending over the fire again.] I ask your pardon; I am talking.  If I could smoke, Monsieur!

     [Wellwyn hands him a tobacco pouch; and he rolls a cigarette
     with his yellow-Stained fingers.]

Ferrand.  The good God made me so that I would rather walk a whole month of nights, hungry, with the stars, than sit one single day making round business on an office stool!  It is not to my advantage.  I cannot help it that I am a vagabond.  What would you have?  It is stronger than me. [He looks suddenly at Wellwyn.] Monsieur, I say to you things I have never said.