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.]