] Let's see! What do I
owe you?

TIMSON. [Reluctantly.] It so 'appens, you advanced me to-day's
yesterday.

WELLWYN. Then I suppose you want to-morrow's?

TIMSON. Well, I 'ad to spend it, lookin' for a permanent job. When
you've got to do with 'orses, you can't neglect the publics, or you
might as well be dead.

WELLWYN. Quite so!

TIMSON. It mounts up in the course o' the year.

WELLWYN. It would. [Passing him a coin.] This is for an exceptional
purpose--Timson--see. Not----

TIMSON. [Touching his forehead.] Certainly, sir. I quite
understand. I'm not that sort, as I think I've proved to yer, comin'
here regular day after day, all the week. There's one thing, I ought
to warn you perhaps--I might 'ave to give this job up any day.

[He makes a faint demonstration with the little brush, then puts
it, absent-mindedly, into his pocket.]

WELLWYN. [Gravely.] I'd never stand in the way of your bettering
yourself, Timson. And, by the way, my daughter spoke to a friend
about you to-day. I think something may come of it.

TIMSON. Oh! Oh! She did! Well, it might do me a bit o' good. [He
makes for the outer door, but stops.] That foreigner! 'E sticks in
my gizzard. It's not as if there wasn't plenty o' pigeons for 'im to
pluck in 'is own Gawd-forsaken country. Reg-lar jay, that's what I
calls 'im. I could tell yer something----

[He has opened the door, and suddenly sees that FERRAND himself
is standing there. Sticking out his lower lip, TIMSON gives a
roll of his jaw and lurches forth into the street. Owing to a
slight miscalculation, his face and raised arms are plainly
visible through the window, as he fortifies himself from his
battle against the cold. FERRAND, having closed the door,
stands with his thumb acting as pointer towards this spectacle.
He is now remarkably dressed in an artist's squashy green hat, a
frock coat too small for him, a bright blue tie of knitted silk,
the grey trousers that were torn, well-worn brown boots, and a
tan waistcoat.]

WELLWYN. What luck to-day?

FERRAND. [With a shrug.] Again I have beaten all London, Monsieur
--not one bite. [Contemplating himself.] I think perhaps, that, for
the bourgeoisie, there is a little too much colour in my costume.

WELLWYN. [Contemplating him.] Let's see--I believe I've an old top
hat somewhere.

FERRAND. Ah! Monsieur, 'merci', but that I