f all the d---d topsy--turvy--!
Not a soul in the world wants her alive--and now she's to be
prosecuted for trying to be where everyone wishes her.

CONSTABLE. Come, sir, come! Be a man!

[Throughout all this MRS. MEGAN has sat stolidly before the
fire, but as FERRAND suddenly steps forward she looks up at
him.]

FERRAND. Do not grieve, Monsieur! This will give her courage.
There is nothing that gives more courage than to see the irony of
things. [He touches MRS. MEGAN'S shoulder.] Go, my child; it will
do you good.

[MRS. MEGAN rises, and looks at him dazedly.]

CONSTABLE. [Coming forward, and taking her by the hand.] That's my
good lass. Come along! We won't hurt you.

MRS. MEGAN. I don't want to go. They'll stare at me.

CONSTABLE. [Comforting.] Not they! I'll see to that.

WELLWYN. [Very upset.] Take her in a cab, Constable, if you must
--for God's sake! [He pulls out a shilling.] Here!

CONSTABLE. [Taking the shilling.] I will, sir, certainly. Don't
think I want to----

WELLWYN. No, no, I know. You're a good sort.

CONSTABLE. [Comfortable.] Don't you take on, sir. It's her first
try; they won't be hard on 'er. Like as not only bind 'er over in
her own recogs. not to do it again. Come, my dear.

MRS. MEGAN. [Trying to free herself from the policeman's cloak.] I
want to take this off. It looks so funny.

[As she speaks the door is opened by ANN; behind whom is dimly
seen the form of old TIMSON, still heading the curious
persons.]

ANN. [Looking from one to the other in amazement.] What is it?
What's happened? Daddy!

FERRAND. [Out of the silence.] It is nothing, Ma'moiselle! She
has failed to drown herself. They run her in a little.

WELLWYN. Lend her your jacket, my dear; she'll catch her death.

[ANN, feeling MRS. MEGAN's arm, strips of her jacket, and helps
her into it without a word.]

CONSTABLE. [Donning his cloak.] Thank you. Miss--very good of
you, I'm sure.

MRS. MEGAN. [Mazed.] It's warm!

[She gives them all a last half-smiling look, and Passes with
the CONSTABLE through the doorway.]

FERRAND. That makes the third of us, Monsieur. We are not in luck.
To wish us dead, it seems, is easier than to let us die.

[He looks at ANN, who is standing with her eyes fixed on her
father. WELLWYN has taken from his pocket a visiting card.]

WELLWYN. [To FERRAND.] Here quick; take