WELLWYN. Ho! Tt! Tt! [He looks into the basket.] Christmas, too!

MRS. MEGAN. They're dead.

WELLWYN. [Drawing in his breath.] Got a good husband?

MRS. MEGAN. He plays cards.

WELLWYN. Oh, Lord! And what are you doing out--with a cold like
that? [He taps his chest.]

MRS. MEGAN. We was sold up this morning--he's gone off with 'is
mates. Haven't took enough yet for a night's lodgin'.

WELLWYN. [Correcting a spasmodic dive into his pockets.] But who
buys flowers at this time of night?

[MRS. MEGAN looks at him, and faintly smiles.]

WELLWYN. [Rumpling his hair.] Saints above us! Here! Come to the
fire!

[She follows him to the fire. He shuts the street door.]

WELLWYN. Are your feet wet? [She nods.] Well, sit down here, and
take them off. That's right.

[She sits on the stool. And after a slow look up at him, which
has in it a deeper knowledge than belongs of right to her years,
begins taking off her shoes and stockings. WELLWYN goes to the