[WELLWYN, seizing the decanter, pours into it tea and boiling
water.]
CONSTABLE. It's never drownin', sir—her head was hardly under; I was on to her like knife.
FERRAND. [Rubbing her feet.] She has not yet her philosophy, Monsieur; at the beginning they often try. If she is dead! [In a voice of awed rapture.] What fortune!
CONSTABLE. [With puzzled sadness.] True enough, sir—that! We'd just begun to know 'er. If she 'as been taken—her best friends couldn't wish 'er better.
WELLWYN. [Applying the decanter to her dips.] Poor little thing!
I'll try this hot tea.
FERRAND. [Whispering.] 'La mort—le grand ami!'
WELLWYN. Look! Look at her! She's coming round!
[A faint tremor passes over MRS. MEGAN's body. He again
applies the hot drink to her mouth. She stirs and gulps.]
CONSTABLE. [With intense relief.] That's brave! Good lass!
She'll pick up now, sir.
[Then, seeing that TIMSON and the curious persons have again
opened the door, he drives them out, and stands with his back
against it. MRS. MEGAN comes to herself.]