MRS. MEGAN. [Looking at him and smiling.] How did you and 'im come here? FERRAND. Ma'moiselle, we would ask you the same question. MRS. MEGAN. The gentleman let me. 'E's funny. FERRAND. 'C'est un ange' [At MRS. MEGAN's blank stare he interprets.] An angel! MRS. MEGAN. Me luck's out-that's why I come. FERRAND. [Rising.] Ah! Ma'moiselle! Luck! There is the little God who dominates us all. Look at this old! [He points to TIMSON.] He is finished. In his day that old would be doing good business. He could afford himself--[He maker a sign of drinking.]--Then come the motor cars. All goes--he has nothing left, only 'is 'abits of a 'cocher'! Luck! TIMSON. [With a vague gesture--drowsily.] Kick the foreign beggars out. FERRAND. A real Englishman.... And look at me! My father was merchant of ostrich feathers in Brussels. If I had been content to go in his business, I would 'ave been rich. But I was born to roll--"rolling stone" to voyage is stronger than myself. Luck!... And you, Ma'moiselle, shall I tell your fortune? [He looks in her face.] You were born for 'la joie de vivre'--to drink the wines of life. 'Et vous voila'! Luck! [Though she does not in the least understand what he has said, her expression changes to a sort of glee.] FERRAND. Yes. You were born loving pleasure. Is it not? You see, you cannot say, No. All of us, we have our fates. Give me your hand. [He kneels down and takes her hand.] In each of us there is that against which we cannot struggle. Yes, yes! [He holds her hand, and turns it over between his own. MRS. MEGAN remains stolid, half fascinated, half-reluctant.] TIMSON. [Flickering into consciousness.] Be'ave yourselves! Yer crimson canary birds! [MRS. MEGAN would withdraw her hand, but cannot.] FERRAND. Pay no attention, Ma'moiselle. He is a Puritan. [TIMSON relapses into comatosity, upsetting his glass, which falls with a crash.] MRS. MEGAN. Let go my hand, please! FERRAND. [Relinquishing it, and staring into the fore gravely.] There is one thing I have never done--'urt a woman--that is hardly in my character. [Then, drawing a little closer, he looks into her face.] Tell me, Ma'moiselle, what is it you think of all day long? MRS. MEGAN. I dunno--lots, I thinks of. FERRAND. Shall I tell you? [Her eyes remain fixed on his, the strangeness of him preventing her from telling him to "get along." He goes on in his ironic voice.] It is of the streets--the lights-- the faces--it is of all which moves, and is warm--it is of colour--it is [he brings his face quite close to hers] of Love. That is for you what the road is for me. That is for you what the rum is for that old--[He jerks his thumb back at TIMSON. Then bending swiftly forward to the girl.] See! I kiss you--Ah!