Drunk, sir. [Ascertaining TIMSON to be in the street.]
Just off the premises, by good luck. Come along, father.
TIMSON. [Assisted to his feet-drowsily.] Cert'nly, by no means;
take my arm.
[They move from the doorway. HOXTON and CALWAY re-enter, and
go towards the fire.]
ANN. [Entering from the house.] What's happened?
CALWAY. Might we have a brush?
HOXTON. [Testily.] Let it dry!
[He moves to the fire and stands before it. PROFESSOR CALWAY
following stands a little behind him. ANN returning begins to
brush the PROFESSOR's sleeve.]
WELLWYN. [Turning from the door, where he has stood looking after
the receding TIMSON.] Poor old Timson!
FERRAND. [Softly.] Must be philosopher, Monsieur! They will but
run him in a little.
[From the model's room MRS. MEGAN has come out, shepherded by
CANON BERTLEY.]
BERTLEY. Let's see, your Christian name is----.
MRS. MEGAN. Guinevere.
BERTLEY. Oh! Ah! Ah! Ann, take Gui--take our little friend into
the study a minute: I am going to put her into service. We shall
make a new woman of her, yet.
ANN. [Handing CANON BERTLEY the brush, and turning to MRS. MEGAN.]
Come on!
[She leads into the house, and MRS. MEGAN follows Stolidly.]
BERTLEY. [Brushing CALWAY'S back.] Have you fallen?
CALWAY. Yes.
BERTLEY. Dear me! How was that?
HOXTON. That old ruffian drunk on the doorstep. Hope they'll give
him a sharp dose! These rag-tags!
[He looks round, and his angry eyes light by chance on FERRAND.
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