WELLWYN. [To himself.] Bad lot--low type! No method! No theory!

[In the open doorway appear FERRAND and MRS. MEGAN. They
stand, unseen, looking at him. FERRAND is more ragged, if
possible, than on Christmas Eve. His chin and cheeks are
clothed in a reddish golden beard. MRS. MEGAN's dress is not
so woe-begone, but her face is white, her eyes dark-circled.
They whisper. She slips back into the shadow of the doorway.
WELLWYN turns at the sound, and stares at FERRAND in
amazement.]

FERRAND. [Advancing.] Enchanted to see you, Monsieur. [He looks
round the empty room.] You are leaving?

WELLWYN. [Nodding--then taking the young man's hand.] How goes it?

FERRAND. [Displaying himself, simply.] As you see, Monsieur. I
have done of my best. It still flies from me.

WELLWYN. [Sadly--as if against his will.] Ferrand, it will always
fly.

[The young foreigner shivers suddenly from head to foot; then
controls himself with a great effort.]

FERRAND. Don't say that, Monsieur! It is too much the echo of my
heart.

WELLWYN. Forgive me! I didn't mean to pain you.

FERRAND. [Drawing nearer the fire.] That old cabby, Monsieur, you
remember--they tell me, he nearly succeeded to gain happiness the
other day.

[WELLWYN nods.]

FERRAND. And those Sirs, so interested in him, with their theories?
He has worn them out? [WELLWYN nods.] That goes without saying.
And now they wish for him the lethal chamber.

WELLWYN. [Startled.] How did you know that?

[There is silence.]

FERRAND. [Staring into the fire.] Monsieur, while I was on the
road this time I fell ill of a fever. It seemed to me in my illness
that I saw the truth--how I was wasting in this world--I would never
be good for any one--nor any one for me--all would go by, and I
never of it--fame, and fortune, and peace, even the necessities of
life, ever mocking me.

[He draws closer to the fire, spreading his fingers to the
flame. And while he is speaking, through the doorway MRS.
MEGAN creeps in to listen.]

FERRAND. [Speaking on into the fire.] And I saw, Monsieur, so
plain, that I should be vagabond all my days, and my days short, I
dying in the end the death of a dog. I saw it all in my fever--
clear as that flame--there was nothing for us others, but the herb
of death. [WELLWYN takes his arm and presses it.] And so,
Monsieur, I wished to die. I to