[WELLWYN takes up ANN's long red cloak, and wraps it round the
old man.]

TIMSON. [Faintly roused.] Tha's right. Put--the rug on th' old
'orse.

[He makes a strange noise, and works his head and tongue.]

WELLWYN. [Alarmed.] What's the matter with him?

FERRAND. It is nothing, Monsieur; for the moment he thinks 'imself a
'orse. 'Il joue "cache-cache,"' 'ide and seek, with what you call--
'is bitt.

WELLWYN. But what's to be done with him? One can't turn him out in
this state.

FERRAND. If you wish to leave him 'ere, Monsieur, have no fear. I
charge myself with him.

WELLWYN. Oh! [Dubiously.] You--er--I really don't know, I--hadn't
contemplated--You think you could manage if I--if I went to bed?

FERRAND. But certainly, Monsieur.

WELLWYN. [Still dubiously.] You--you're sure you've everything you
want?

FERRAND. [Bowing.] 'Mais oui, Monsieur'.