FERRAND. Touching, is it not, Monsieur? There are many brave gents among the old cabbies--they have philosophy--that comes from 'orses, and from sitting still. WELLWYN. [Touching TIMSON's shoulder.] Drenched! FERRAND. That will do 'im no 'arm, Monsieur-no 'arm at all. He is well wet inside, remember--it is Christmas to-morrow. Put him a rug, if you will, he will soon steam. [WELLWYN takes up ANN's long red cloak, and wraps it round the old man.] TIMSON. [Faintly roused.] Tha's right. Put--the rug on th' old 'orse. [He makes a strange noise, and works his head and tongue.] WELLWYN. [Alarmed.] What's the matter with him? FERRAND. It is nothing, Monsieur; for the moment he thinks 'imself a 'orse. 'Il joue "cache-cache,"' 'ide and seek, with what you call-- 'is bitt. WELLWYN. But what's to be done with him? One can't turn him out in this state. FERRAND. If you wish to leave him 'ere, Monsieur, have no fear. I charge myself with him. WELLWYN. Oh! [Dubiously.] You--er--I really don't know, I--hadn't contemplated--You think you could manage if I--if I went to bed? FERRAND. But certainly, Monsieur. WELLWYN. [Still dubiously.] You--you're sure you've everything you want? FERRAND. [Bowing.] 'Mais oui, Monsieur'. WELLWYN. I don't know what I can do by staying. FERRAND. There is nothing you can do, Monsieur. Have confidence in me. WELLWYN. Well-keep the fire up quietly--very quietly. You'd better take this coat of mine, too. You'll find it precious cold, I expect, about three o'clock. [He hands FERRAND his Ulster.] FERRAND. [Taking it.] I shall sleep in praying for you, Monsieur. WELLWYN. Ah! Yes! Thanks! Well-good-night! By the way, I shall be down rather early. Have to think of my household a bit, you know. 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!'