[The Girl, perfectly dumb, passes through with her basket--and
her shoes and stockings. WELLWYN hands her the candle,
blankets, and bath gown.]

WELLWYN. Have a good sleep, child! Forget that you're alive!
[He closes the door, mournfully.] Done it again! [He goes to the
table, cuts a large slice of cake, knocks on the door, and hands it
in.] Chow-chow! [Then, as he walks away, he sights the opposite
door.] Well--damn it, what could I have done? Not a farthing on me!
[He goes to the street door to shut it, but first opens it wide to
confirm himself in his hospitality.] Night like this!

[A sputter of snow is blown in his face. A voice says:
"Monsieur, pardon!" WELLWYN recoils spasmodically. A figure
moves from the lamp-post to the doorway. He is seen to be young
and to have ragged clothes. He speaks again: "You do not
remember me, Monsieur? My name is Ferrand--it was in Paris, in
the Champs-Elysees--by the fountain . . . . When you came to
the door, Monsieur--I am not made of iron . . . . Tenez,
here is your card I have never lost it." He holds out to WELLWYN
an old and dirty wing card. As inch by inch he has advanced
into the doorway, the light from within falls on him, a tall
gaunt young pagan with fair hair and reddish golden stubble of
beard, a long ironical nose a little to one side, and large,
grey, rather prominent eyes. There is a certain grace in his
figure and movements; his clothes are nearly dropping off him.]

WELLWYN. [Yielding to a pleasant memory.] Ah! yes. By the
fountain. I was sitting there, and you came and ate a roll, and