in with still more unanimity.]

HOXTON. My----! CALWAY. My----! BERTLEY. My----!

[They stop in greater surprise. The stage is blotted dark.]

Curtain.

ACT III

It is the first of April--a white spring day of gleams and driving
showers. The street door of WELLWYN's studio stands wide open, and,
past it, in the street, the wind is whirling bits of straw and paper
bags. Through the door can be seen the butt end of a stationary
furniture van with its flap let down. To this van three humble-men
in shirt sleeves and aprons, are carrying out the contents of the
studio. The hissing samovar, the tea-pot, the sugar, and the nearly
empty decanter of rum stand on the low round table in the
fast-being-gutted room. WELLWYN in his ulster and soft hat, is
squatting on the little stool in front of the blazing fire, staring
into it, and smoking a hand-made cigarette. He has a moulting air.
Behind him the humble-men pass, embracing busts and other articles
of vertu.

CHIEF H'MAN. [Stopping, and standing in the attitude of
expectation.] We've about pinched this little lot, sir. Shall we
take the--reservoir?

[He indicates the samovar.]

WELLWYN. Ah! [Abstractedly feeling in his pockets, and finding
coins.] Thanks--thanks--heavy work, I'm afraid.

H'MAN. [Receiving the coins--a little surprised and a good deal
pleased.] Thank'ee, sir. Much obliged, I'm sure. We'll 'ave to
come back for this. [He gives the dais a vigorous push with his
foot.] Not a fixture, as I understand. Perhaps you'd like us to
leave these 'ere for a bit. [He indicates the tea things.]

WELLWYN. Ah! do.

[The humble-men go out. There is the sound of horses being
started, and the butt end of the van disappears. WELLWYN stays
on his stool, smoking and brooding over the fare. The open
doorway is darkened by a figure. CANON BERTLEY is standing
there.]

BERTLEY. WELLWYN! [WELLWYN turns and rises.] It's ages since I
saw you. No idea you were moving. This is very dreadful.

WELLWYN. Yes, Ann found this--too exposed. That tall house in
Flight Street--we're going there. Seventh floor.

BERTLEY. Lift?

[WELLWYN shakes his head.]

BERTLEY. Dear me! No lift? Fine view, no doubt. [WELLWYN nods.]
You'll be greatly missed.

WELLWYN. So Ann thinks. Vicar, what's become of that little
flower-seller I was painting at Christmas? You took her