ANN. [Pouring out the rum, and handing him the glass.] Well, who was it? WELLWYN. He didn't beg of me. [Losing himself in recollection.] Interesting old creature, Ann--real type. Old cabman. ANN. Where? WELLWYN. Just on the Embankment. ANN. Of course! Daddy, you know the Embankment ones are always rotters. WELLWYN. Yes, my dear; but this wasn't. ANN. Did you give him your card? WELLWYN. I--I--don't ANN. Did you, Daddy? WELLWYN. I'm rather afraid I may have! ANN. May have! It's simply immoral. WELLWYN. Well, the old fellow was so awfully human, Ann. Besides, I didn't give him any money--hadn't got any. ANN. Look here, Daddy! Did you ever ask anybody for anything? You know you never did, you'd starve first. So would anybody decent. Then, why won't you see that people who beg are rotters? WELLWYN. But, my dear, we're not all the same. They wouldn't do it if it wasn't natural to them. One likes to be friendly. What's the use of being alive if one isn't? ANN. Daddy, you're hopeless. WELLWYN. But, look here, Ann, the whole thing's so jolly complicated. According to Calway, we're to give the State all we can spare, to make the undeserving deserving. He's a Professor; he ought to know. But old Hoxton's always dinning it into me that we ought to support private organisations for helping the deserving, and damn the undeserving. Well, that's just the opposite. And he's a J.P. Tremendous experience. And the Vicar seems to be for a little bit of both. Well, what the devil----? My trouble is, whichever I'm with, he always converts me. [Ruefully.] And there's no fun in any of them. ANN. [Rising.] Oh! Daddy, you are so--don't you know that you're the despair of all social reformers? [She envelops him.] There's a tear in the left knee of your trousers. You're not to wear them again. WELLWYN. Am I likely to? ANN. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if it isn't your only pair. D'you know what I live in terror of? [WELLWYN gives her a queer and apprehensive look.] ANN. That you'll take them off some day, and give them away in the street. Have you got any money? [She feels in his coat, and he his trousers--they find nothing.] Do you know that your pockets are one enormous hole? WELLWYN. No! ANN. Spiritually. WELLWYN. Oh! Ah! H'm! ANN. [Severely.] Now, look here, Daddy! [She takes him by his lapels.] Don't imagine that it isn't the most disgusting luxury on your part to go on giving away things as you do! You know what you really are, I suppose--a sickly sentimentalist! WELLWYN. [Breaking away from her, disturbed.] It isn't sentiment. It's simply that they seem to me so--so--jolly. If I'm to give up feeling sort of--nice in here [he touches his chest] about people--it doesn't matter who they are--then I don't know what I'm to do. I shall have to sit with my head in a bag. ANN. I think you ought to.