Lemmy, who has brought to the table two mugs and blown the duet
     out of; them, fills them with port, and hands one to his mother,
     who is eating her bread and milk.

Lemmy.  Ah!  Nothin’ worried me, ‘cept the want o’ soap.

Mrs. L. [Cackling gently] So it du still, then!  Luke at yore face.  Yu never was a clean boy, like Jim.

     [She puts out a thin finger and touches his cheek, whereon is a
     black smudge.]

Lemmy. [Scrubbing his cheek with his sleeve.] All right!  Y’see, I come stryte ‘ere, to get rid o’ this.

     [He drinks.]

Mrs. L. [Eating her bread and milk] Tes a pity yu’m not got a wife to see’t yu wash yureself.

Lemmy. [Goggling] Wife!  Not me—­I daon’t want ter myke no food for pahder.  Wot oh!—­they said, time o’ the war—­ye’re fightin’ for yer children’s ’eritage.  Well; wot’s the ’eritage like, now we’ve got it?  Empty as a shell before yer put the ’igh explosive in.  Wot’s it like? [Warming to his theme] Like a prophecy in the pypers—­not a bit more substantial.

Mrs. L. [Slightly hypnotised] How ’e du talk!  The gas goes to yore ’ead, I think!

Lemmy.  I did the gas to-dy in the cellars of an ’ouse where the wine was mountains ’igh.  A regiment couldn’t ’a drunk it.  Marble pillars in the ‘all, butler broad as an observytion balloon, an’ four conscientious khaki footmen.  When the guns was roarin’ the talk was all for no more o’ them glorious weeds-style an’ luxury was orf.  See wot it is naow.  You’ve got a bare crust in the cupboard ’ere, I works from ‘and to mouth in a glutted market—­an’ there they stand abaht agyne in their britches in the ‘oases o’ the gryte.  I was reg’lar overcome by it.  I left a thing in that cellar—­I left a thing . . . .  It’ll be a bit ork’ard for me to-mower. [Drinks from his mug.]

Mrs. L. [Placidly, feeling the warmth of the little she has drunk] What thing?

Lemmy.  Wot thing?  Old lydy, ye’re like a winkle afore yer opens ’er—­I never see anything so peaceful.  ’Ow dyer manage it?

Mrs. L. Settin’ ‘ere and thenkin’.

Lea.  Wot abaht?

Mrs. L. We-el—­Money, an’ the works o’ God.

Lemmy.  Ah!  So yer give me a thought sometimes.

Mrs. L. [Lofting her mug] Yu ought never to ha’ spent yore money on this, Bob!

Lemmy.  I thought that meself.

Mrs. L. Last time I ‘ad a glass o’ port wine was the day yore brother Jim went to Ameriky. [Smacking her lips] For a teetotal drink, it du warm ’ee!

Lemmy. [Raising his mug] Well, ’ere’s to the British revolution! 
’Ere’s to the conflygrytion in the sky!

Mrs. L. [Comfortably] So as to kape up therr, ’twon’t du no ’arm.