THE ANGEL. I don't mind telling you. It concerns a mortal called James
Pendleton.
THE POLICEMAN. (genial again) Aha! So you're a friend of Jimmy
Pendleton's, are you?
THE ANGEL. Not exactly. I am his Guardian Angel.
THE POLICEMAN. Well, faith, he needs one! Come, me b'y, I'll see ye safe to his door.
THE ANGEL. Thank you. But, if you don't mind, I prefer to go alone.
He turns away.
THE POLICEMAN. Good night to you, then.
_He idly watches the angelic figure walk away, and then stares with amazement as it spreads its wings and soars to the top of Washington Arch. Pausing there a moment, it soars again in the air, and is seen wafting its way over the neighbouring housetops to the northeast. The policeman shakes his head in disapproval.
Jimmy Pendleton is dozing in an easy chair before the grate-fire in Ms studio in Washington Mews. A yellow-backed French novel has fallen from his knee to the floor. It is Anatole France's "La Revolte des Anges". A suitcase stands beside the chair. Jimmy is evidently about to go on some journey.
A clock begins to strike somewhere. Jimmy Pendleton awakes_.