Heavens! But your husband! Um?
MRS. MEGAN. [With stoical vindictiveness.] He's after one I know of.
WELLWYN. Tt! What a pickle!
MRS. MEGAN. I'll 'ave to walk about the streets.
WELLWYN. [To himself.] Now how can I?
[MRS. MEGAN looks up and smiles at him, as if she had already
discovered that he is peculiar.]
WELLWYN. You see, the fact is, I mustn't give you anything--because
--well, for one thing I haven't got it. There are other reasons, but
that's the--real one. But, now, there's a little room where my
models dress. I wonder if you could sleep there. Come, and see.
[The Girl gets up lingeringly, loth to leave the warmth. She
takes up her wet stockings.]
MRS. MEGAN. Shall I put them on again?
WELLWYN. No, no; there's a nice warm pair of slippers. [Seeing the
steam rising from her.] Why, you're wet all over. Here, wait a
little!
[He crosses to the door into the house, and after stealthy
listening, steps through. The Girl, like a cat, steals back to
the warmth of the fire. WELLWYN returns with a candle, a
canary-coloured bath gown, and two blankets.
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