AND. [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-night. At the
most, drink, and fly a little in his past.

WELLWYN. Poor old buffer!

FERRAND. Touching, is it not, Monsieur? There are many brave gents
among the old cabbies--they have philosophy--that comes from 'orses,
and from sitting still.

WELLWYN. [Touching TIMSON's shoulder.] Drenched!

FERRAND. That will do 'im no 'arm, Monsieur-no 'arm at all. He is
well wet inside, remember--it is Christmas to-morrow. Put him a rug,
if you will, he will soon steam.

[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 h