TIMSON. [In a thick, hoarse, shaking voice.] 'Appy to see you, sir; we 'ad a talk this morning. Timson--I give you me name. You invited of me, if ye remember. WELLWYN. It's a little late, really. TIMSON. Well, ye see, I never expected to 'ave to call on yer. I was 'itched up all right when I spoke to yer this mornin', but bein' Christmas, things 'ave took a turn with me to-day. [He speaks with increasing thickness.] I'm reg'lar disgusted--not got the price of a bed abaht me. Thought you wouldn't like me to be delicate--not at my age. WELLWYN. [With a mechanical and distracted dive of his hands into his pockets.] The fact is, it so happens I haven't a copper on me. TIMSON. [Evidently taking this for professional refusal.] Wouldn't arsk you if I could 'elp it. 'Ad to do with 'orses all me life. It's this 'ere cold I'm frightened of. I'm afraid I'll go to sleep. WELLWYN. Well, really, I---- TIMSON. To be froze to death--I mean--it's awkward. WELLWYN. [Puzzled and unhappy.] Well--come in a moment, and let's-- think it out. Have some tea! [He pours out the remains of the tea, and finding there is not very much, adds rum rather liberally. TIMSON, who walks a little wide at the knees, steadying his gait, has followed.] TIMSON. [Receiving the drink.] Yer 'ealth. 'Ere's--soberiety! [He applies the drink to his lips with shaking hand. Agreeably surprised.] Blimey! Thish yer tea's foreign, ain't it? FERRAND. [Reappearing from behind the screen in his new clothes of which the trousers stop too soon.] With a needle, Monsieur, I would soon have with what to make face against the world. WELLWYN. Too short! Ah! [He goes to the dais on which stands ANN's workbasket, and takes from it a needle and cotton.] [While he is so engaged FERRAND is sizing up old TIMSON, as one dog will another. The old man, glass in hand, seems to have lapsed into coma.] FERRAND. [Indicating TIMSON] Monsieur! [He makes the gesture of one drinking, and shakes his head.] WELLWYN. [Handing him the needle and cotton.] Um! Afraid so! [They approach TIMSON, who takes no notice.] FERRAND. [Gently.] It is an old cabby, is it not, Monsieur? 'Ceux sont tous des buveurs'. WELLWYN. [Concerned at the old man's stupefaction.] Now, my old friend, sit down a moment. [They manoeuvre TIMSON to the settle.] Will you smoke? TIMSON. [In a drowsy voice.] Thank 'ee-smoke pipe of 'baccer. Old 'orse--standin' abaht in th' cold. [He relapses into coma.] FERRAND. [With a click of his tongue.] 'Il est parti'. WELLWYN. [Doubtfully.] He hasn't really left a horse outside, do you think? FERRAND. Non, non, Monsieur--no 'orse. He is dreaming. I know very well that state of him--that catches you sometimes. It is the warmth sudden on the stomach. He will speak no more sense to-night. At the most, drink, and fly a little in his past. WELLWYN. Poor old buffer!