od--we hopeless ones.

WELLWYN. [Shaking his head.] Not a bit of it; I'm hopeless too.

FERRAND. [Eagerly.] Monsieur, it is just that. You understand.
When we are with you we feel something--here--[he touches his
heart.] If I had one prayer to make, it would be, Good God, give me
to understand! Those sirs, with their theories, they can clean our
skins and chain our 'abits--that soothes for them the aesthetic
sense; it gives them too their good little importance. But our
spirits they cannot touch, for they nevare understand. Without
that, Monsieur, all is dry as a parched skin of orange.

WELLWYN. Don't be so bitter. Think of all the work they do!

FERRAND. Monsieur, of their industry I say nothing. They do a good
work while they attend with their theories to the sick and the tame
old, and the good unfortunate deserving. Above all to the little
children. But, Monsieur, when all is done, there are always us
hopeless ones. What can they do with me, Monsieur, with that girl,
or with that old man? Ah! Monsieur, we, too, 'ave our qualities,
we others--it wants you courage to undertake a career like mine, or
like that young girl's. We wild ones--we know a thousand times more
of life than ever will those sirs. They waste their time trying to
make rooks white. Be kind to us if you will, or let us alone like
Mees Ann, but do not try to change our skins. Leave us to live, or
leave us to die when we like in the free air. If you do not wish of
us, you have but to shut your pockets and--your doors--we shall die
the faster.

WELLWYN. [With agitation.] But that, you know--we can't do--now
can we?

FERRAND. If you cannot, how is it our fault? The harm we do to
others--is it so much? If I am criminal, dangerous--shut me up!
I would not pity myself--nevare. But we in whom something moves--
like that flame, Monsieur, that cannot keep still--we others--we are
not many--that must have motion in our lives, do not let them make
us prisoners, with their theories, because we are not like them--it
is life itself they would enclose! [He draws up his tattered
figure, then bending over the fire again.] I ask your pardon; I am
talking. If I could smoke, Monsieur!

[WELLWYN hands him a tobacco pouch; and he rolls a cigarette
with his yellow-Stained fingers.]

FERRAND. The good God made me so that I would rather walk a whole
month of nights, hungry, with the stars, than sit one single day
making rou