She has almost reached it before she
takes in the torpid crimson figure of old TIMSON. She halts and
puts her hand to her chest--a queer figure in the firelight,
garbed in the canary-coloured bath gown and rabbit's-wool
slippers, her black matted hair straggling down on her neck.
Having quite digested the fact that the old man is in a sort of
stupor, MRS. MEGAN goes close to the fire, and sits on the little
stool, smiling sideways at old TIMSON. FERRAND, coming quietly
up behind, examines her from above, drooping his long nose as if
enquiring with it as to her condition in life; then he steps back
a yard or two.]
FERRAND. [Gently.] 'Pardon, Ma'moiselle'.
MRS. MEGAN. [Springing to her feet.] Oh!
FERRAND. All right, all right! We are brave gents!
TIMSON. [Faintly roused.] 'Old up, there!
FERRAND. Trust in me, Ma'moiselle!
[MRS. MEGAN responds by drawing away.]
FERRAND. [Gently.] We must be good comrades. This asylum--it is
better than a doss-'ouse.
[He pushes the stool over towards her, and seats himself.
Somewhat reassured, MRS.
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