Then, with a warning motion towards the door, she
wrenches herself free, and stops beside the picture, trying
desperately to appear demure. WELLWYN and ANN have entered.
The face has vanished.]

FERRAND. [Pointing to the picture.] One does not comprehend all
this, Monsieur, without well studying. I was in train to interpret
for Ma'moiselle the chiaroscuro.

WELLWYN. [With a queer look.] Don't take it too seriously,
Ferrand.

FERRAND. It is a masterpiece.

WELLWYN. My daughter's just spoken to a friend, Professor Calway.
He'd like to meet you. Could you come back a little later?

FERRAND. Certainly, Ma'moiselle. That will be an opening for me, I
trust. [He goes to the street door.]

ANN. [Paying no attention to him.] Mrs. Megan, will you too come
back in half an hour?

FERRAND. 'Tres bien, Ma'moiselle'! I will see that she does. We
will take a little promenade together. That will do us good.

[He motions towards the door; MRS. MEGAN, all eyes, follows him
out.]

ANN. Oh! Daddy, they are rotters. Couldn't you see they were
having the most high jinks?

WELLWYN. [At his picture.] I seemed to have noticed something.

ANN. [Preparing for tea.] They were kissing.

WELLWYN. Tt! Tt!

ANN. They're hopeless, all three--especially her. Wish I hadn't
given her my clothes now.

WELLWYN. [Absorbed.] Something of wild-savage.

ANN. Thank goodness it's the Vicar's business to see that married
people live together in his parish.

WELLWYN. Oh! [Dubiously.] The Megans are Roman Catholic-Atheists,
Ann.

ANN. [With heat.] Then they're all the more bound. [WELLWYN gives
a sudden and alarmed whistle.]

ANN. What's the matter?

WELLWYN. Didn't you say you spoke to Sir Thomas, too. Suppose he
comes in while the Professor's here. They're cat and dog.

ANN. [Blankly.] Oh! [As WELLWYN strikes a match.] The samovar is
lighted. [Taking up the nearly empty decanter of rum and going to
the cupboard.] It's all right. He won't.

WELLWYN. We'll hope not.

[He turns back to his picture.]

ANN. [At the cupboard.] Daddy!

WELLWYN. Hi!

ANN. There were three bottles.

WELLWYN. Oh!

ANN. Well! Now there aren't any.

WELLWYN. [Abstracted.] That'll be Timson.

ANN. [With real horror.] But it's awful!

WELLWYN. It is, my dear.

ANN. In seven days. To say nothing of the stealing.

WELLWYN. [Vexed.] I blame myself-very much.