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 him 'ere, Monsieur, have no fear. I
charge myself with him.
WELLWYN. Oh! [Dubiously.] You--er--I really don't know, I--hadn't
contemplated--You think you could manage if I--if I went to bed?
FERRAND. But certainly, Monsieur.
WELLWYN. [Still dubiously.] You--you're sure you've everything you
want?
FERRAND. [Bowing.] 'Mais oui, Monsieur'.
WELLWYN. I don't know what I can do by staying.
FERRAND. There is nothing you can do, Monsieur. Have confidence in
me.
WELLWYN. Well-keep the fire up quietly--very quietly. You'd better
take this coat of mine, too. You'll find it precious cold, I expect,
about three o'clock. [He hands FERRAND his Ulster.]
FERRAND.
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