FERRAND. [In a voice sharpened by emotion.] Let me try, Monsieur.
CONSTABLE. [Touching his arm.] You keep off, my lad.
WELLWYN. No, constable—let him. He's her friend.
CONSTABLE. [Releasing FERRAND—to the LOAFER.] Here you! Cut off for a doctor-sharp now! [He pushes back the curious persons.] Now then, stand away there, please—we can't have you round the body. Keep back—Clear out, now!
[He slowly moves them back, and at last shepherds them through the door and shuts it on them, TIMSON being last.]
FERRAND. The rum!
[WELLWYN fetches the decanter. With the little there is left FERRAND chafes the girl's hands and forehead, and pours some between her lips. But there is no response from the inert body.]
FERRAND. Her soul is still away, Monsieur!
[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.