If she is dead! [In a
voice of awed rapture.] What fortune!
CONSTABLE. [With puzzled sadness.] True enough, sir--that! We'd
just begun to know 'er. If she 'as been taken--her best friends
couldn't wish 'er better.
WELLWYN. [Applying the decanter to her dips.] Poor little thing!
I'll try this hot tea.
FERRAND. [Whispering.] 'La mort--le grand ami!'
WELLWYN. Look! Look at her! She's coming round!
[A faint tremor passes over MRS. MEGAN's body. He again
applies the hot drink to her mouth. She stirs and gulps.]
CONSTABLE. [With intense relief.] That's brave! Good lass!
She'll pick up now, sir.
[Then, seeing that TIMSON and the curious persons have again
opened the door, he drives them out, and stands with his back
against it. MRS. MEGAN comes to herself.]
WELLWYN. [Sitting on the dais and supporting her--as if to a
child.] There you are, my dear. There, there--better now! That's
right. Drink a little more of this tea.
[MRS. MEGAN drinks from the decanter.]
FERRAND. [Rising.] Bring her to the fire, Monsieur.
[They take her to the fire and seat her on the little stool.
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