Press. [Puzzled] In—­That?

Lemmy. [Sotto voce] Come orf it!  Prison!  ’S wot she calls it.

Mrs. L. [Cheerful] They say life’s a vale o’ sorrows.  Well, so ‘tes, but don’ du to let yureself thenk so.

Press.  And so you came to London, Mrs. Lemmy?

Mrs. L. Same year as father died.  With the four o’ them—­that’s my son Fred, an’ my son Jim, an’ my son Tom, an’ Alice.  Bob there, ’e was born in London—­an’ a praaper time I ’ad of et.

Press. [Writing] “Her heroic struggles with poverty——­”

Mrs. L. Worked in a laundry, I ded, at fifteen shellin’s a week, an’ brought ’em all up on et till Alice ‘ad the gallopin’ consumption.  I can see poor Alice wi’ the little red spots is ‘er cheeks—–­an’ I not knowin’ wot to du wi’ ‘her—­but I always kept up their buryin’ money.  Funerals is very dear; Mr. Lemmy was six pound, ten.

Press.  “High price of Mr. Lemmy.”

Mrs. L. I’ve a-got the money for when my time come; never touch et, no matter ‘ow things are.  Better a little goin’ short here below, an’ enter the kingdom of ’eaven independent: 

Press. [Writing] “Death before dishonour—­heroine of the slums. 
Dickens—­Betty Higden.”

Mrs. L. No, sir.  Mary Lemmy.  I’ve seen a-many die, I ‘ave; an’ not one grievin’.  I often says to meself:  [With a little laugh] “Me dear, when yu go, yu go ‘appy.  Don’ yu never fret about that,” I says.  An’ so I will; I’ll go ’appy.

     [She stays quite still a moment, and behind her Lemmy draws one
     finger across his face.]

[Smiling] “Yore old fengers’ll ‘ave a rest.  Think o’ that!” I says.  “‘Twill be a brave change.”  I can see myself lyin’ there an’ duin’ nothin’.

     [Again a pause, while Mrs. Lemmy sees herself doing nothing.]

Lemmy.  Tell abaht Jim; old lydy.

Mrs. L. My son Jim ‘ad a family o’ seven in six years.  “I don’ know ’ow ’tes, Mother,” ’e used to say to me; “they just sim to come!” That was Jim—­never knu from day to day what was cumin’.  “Therr’s another of ’em dead,” ’e used to say, “’tes funny, tu” “Well,” I used to say to ‘im; “no wonder, poor little things, livin’ in they model dwellin’s.  Therr’s no air for ’em,” I used to say.  “Well,” ’e used to say, “what can I du, Mother?  Can’t afford to live in Park Lane:”  An’ ‘e take an’ went to Ameriky. [Her voice for the first time is truly doleful] An’ never came back.  Fine feller.  So that’s my four sons—­One’s dead, an’ one’s in—­That, an’ one’s in Ameriky, an’ Bob ’ere, poor boy, ’e always was a talker.

     [Lemmy, who has re-seated himself in the window and taken up his
     fiddle, twangs the strings.]

Press.  And now a few words about your work, Mrs. Lemmy?

Mrs. L. Well, I sews.