FERRAND. 'Tres bien, Monsieur'. I comprehend. One must well be
regular in this life.
WELLWYN. [With a start.] Lord! [He looks at the door of the
model's room.] I'd forgotten----
FERRAND. Can I undertake anything, Monsieur?
WELLWYN. No, no! [He goes to the electric light switch by the outer
door.] You won't want this, will you?
FERRAND. 'Merci, Monsieur'.
[WELLWYN switches off the light.]
FERRAND. 'Bon soir, Monsieur'!
WELLWYN. The devil! Er--good-night!
[He hesitates, rumples his hair, and passes rather suddenly
away.]
FERRAND. [To himself.] Poor pigeon! [Looking long at old TIMSON]
'Espece de type anglais!'
[He sits down in the firelight, curls up a foot on his knee, and
taking out a knife, rips the stitching of a turned-up end of
trouser, pinches the cloth double, and puts in the preliminary
stitch of a new hem--all with the swiftness of one well-accustomed.
Then, as if hearing a sound behind him, he gets up quickly and
slips behind the screen. MRS. MEGAN, attracted by the cessation
of voices, has opened the door, and is creeping from the model's
room towards the fire.
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