-not got the price of a
bed abaht me. Thought you wouldn't like me to be delicate--not at my
age.

WELLWYN. [With a mechanical and distracted dive of his hands into
his pockets.] The fact is, it so happens I haven't a copper on me.

TIMSON. [Evidently taking this for professional refusal.] Wouldn't
arsk you if I could 'elp it. 'Ad to do with 'orses all me life.
It's this 'ere cold I'm frightened of. I'm afraid I'll go to sleep.

WELLWYN. Well, really, I----

TIMSON. To be froze to death--I mean--it's awkward.

WELLWYN. [Puzzled and unhappy.] Well--come in a moment, and let's--
think it out. Have some tea!

[He pours out the remains of the tea, and finding there is not
very much, adds rum rather liberally. TIMSON, who walks a
little wide at the knees, steadying his gait, has followed.]

TIMSON. [Receiving the drink.] Yer 'ealth. 'Ere's--soberiety!
[He applies the drink to his lips with shaking hand. Agreeably
surprised.] Blimey! Thish yer tea's foreign, ain't it?

FERRAND. [Reappearing from behind the screen in his new clothes of
which the trousers stop too soon.] With a needle, Monsieur, I would
soon have with what to make face against the world.

WELLWYN. Too short! Ah!

[He goes to the dais on which stands ANN's workbasket, and takes
from it a needle and cotton.]

[While he is so engaged FERRAND is sizing up old TIMSON, as one
dog will another. The old man, glass in hand, seems to have
lapsed into coma.]

FERRAND. [Indicating TIMSON] Monsieur!

[He makes the gesture of one drinking, and shakes his head.]

WELLWYN. [Handing him the needle and cotton.] Um! Afraid so!

[They approach TIMSON, who takes no notice.]

FERRAND. [Gently.] It is an old cabby, is it not, Monsieur? 'Ceux
sont tous des buveurs'.

WELLWYN. [Concerned at the old man's stupefaction.] Now, my old
friend, sit down a moment. [They manoeuvre TIMSON to the settle.]
Will you smoke?

TIMSON. [In a drowsy voice.] Thank 'ee-smoke pipe of 'baccer. Old
'orse--standin' abaht in th' cold.

[He relapses into coma.]

FERRAND. [With a click of his tongue.] 'Il est parti'.

WELLWYN. [Doubtfully.] He hasn't really left a horse outside, do
you think?

FERRAND. Non, non, Monsieur--no 'orse. He is dreaming. I know very
well that state of him--that catches you sometimes. It is the warmth
sudden on the stomach. He will speak no more sense to-nig