Lemmy. [To himself] Sensytion!  ’E cawn’t keep orf it!

Mrs. L. Anti-Sweat.  Poor fellers!  I ’ad one come to see we before the war, an’ they’m still goin’ on?  Wonderful, an’t it?

Press.  Come, Mrs. Lemmy; drive in a taxi, beautiful moonlit night; and they’ll give you a splendid cup of tea.

Mrs. L. [Unmoved] Ah!  I cudn’t never du without my tea.  There’s not an avenin’ but I thinks to meself:  Now, me dear, yu’ve a-got one more to fennish, an’ then yu’ll ‘eve yore cup o’ tea.  Thank you for callin’, all the same.

Lemmy.  Better siccumb to the temptytion, old lydy; joyride wiv the Press; marble floors, pillars o’ gold; conscientious footmen; lovely lydies; scuppers runnin’ tea!  An’ the revolution goin’ on across the wy.  ’Eaven’s nuffink to Pawk Lyne.

Press.  Come along, Mrs. Lemmy!

Mrs. L. [Seraphically] Thank yu,—­I’m a-feelin’ very comfortable. 
‘Tes wonderful what a drop o’ wine’ll du for the stomach.

Press.  A taxi-ride!

Mrs. L. [Placidly] Ah!  I know’em.  They’m very busy things.

Lemmy.  Muvver shuns notority. [Sotto voce to the press] But you watch me!  I’ll rouse ’er.

[He takes up his fiddle and sits on the window seat.  Above the little houses on the opposite side of the street, the moon has risen in the dark blue sky, so that the cloud shaped like a beast seems leaping over it.  Lemmy plays the first notes of the Marseillaise.  A black cat on the window-sill outside looks in, hunching its back.  Little Aida barks at her.  Mrs. Lemmy struggles to her feet, sweeping the empty dish and spoon to the floor in the effort.]

The dish ran awy wiv the spoon!  That’s right, old lydy! [He stops playing.]

Mrs. L. [Smiling, and moving her hands] I like a bit o’ music.  It du that move ’ee.

Press.  Bravo, Mrs. Lemmy.  Come on!

Lemmy.  Come on, old dear!  We’ll be in time for the revolution yet.

Mrs. L.  ’Tes ‘earin’ the Old ’Undred again!

Lemmy. [To the press] She ’yn’t been aht these two years. [To his mother, who has put up her hands to her head] Nao, never mind yer ’at. [To the press] She ’yn’t got none! [Aloud] No West-End lydy wears anyfink at all in the evenin’!

Mrs. L.  ‘Ow’m I lukin’, Bob?

Lemmy.  First-clawss; yer’ve got a colour fit to toast by.  We’ll show ’em yer’ve got a kick in yer. [He takes her arm] Little Aida, ketch ‘old o’ the sensytions.

     [He indicates the trousers the press takes Mrs. Lemmy’s other
     arm.]

Mrs. L. [With an excited little laugh] Quite like a gell!

And, smiling between her son and the press, she passes out; little Aida, with a fling of her heels and a wave of the trousers, follows.