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 i