Lemmy. [Musingly] The dawg talks anywy.  Come aht, Fido!

     [Little Anne emerges, and regards him with burning curiosity.]

I sy:  Is this the lytest fashion o’ receivin’ guests?

L. Anne.  Mother always wants people to feel at home.  What shall we do?  Would you like to hear the speeches?  Thomas, open the door a little, do!

James.  ’Umour ‘er a couple o’ inches, Tommy!

     [Thomas draws the door back stealthily an inch or so.]

L. Anne. [After applying her eye-in a loud whisper] There’s the old lady.  Daddy’s looking at her trousers.  Listen!

[For Mrs. Lemmy’s voice is floating faintly through:  “I putt in the buttonholes, I stretches the flies; I ’ems the bottoms; I lines the crutch; I putt on this bindin’; I sews on the buttons; I presses the seams—­Tuppence three farthin’s the pair.”]

Lemmy. [In a hoarse whisper] That’s it, old lydy:  give it ’em!

L. Anne.  Listen!

Voice of lord W. We are indebted to our friends the Press for giving us the pleasure—­er—­pleasure of hearing from her own lips—­the pleasure——­

L. Anne.  Oh!  Daddy!

     [Thomas abruptly closes the doors.]

Lemmy. [To Anne] Now yer’ve done it.  See wot comes o’ bein’ impytient.  We was just gettin’ to the marrer.

L. Anne.  What can we do for you now?

Lemmy. [Pointing to Anne, and addressing James] Wot is this one, anywy?

James. [Sepulchrally] Daughter o’ the house.

Lemmy.  Is she insured agynst ’er own curiosity?

L. Anne.  Why?

Lemmy.  As I daon’t believe in a life beyond the gryve, I might be tempted to send yer there.

L. Anne.  What is the gryve?

Lemmy.  Where little gells goes to.

L. Anne.  Oh, when?

Lemmy. [Pretending to look at a match, which is not there] Well, I dunno if I’ve got time to finish yer this minute.  Sy to-mower at. ’arf past.

L. Anne.  Half past what?

Lemmy. [Despairingly] ’Arf past wot!

     [The sound of applause is heard.]

James.  That’s ’is Grace.  ‘E’s gettin’ wickets, too.

     [Poulder entering from the door.]

Poulder.  Lord William is slippin’ in.

     [He makes a cabalistic sign with his head.  Jeers crosses to the
     door.  Lemmy looks dubiously at Poulder.]

Lemmy. [Suddenly—­as to himself] Wot oh!  I am the portly one!

Poulder. [Severely] Any such allusion aggeravates your offence.

Lemmy.  Oh, ah!  Look ’ere, it was a corked bottle.  Now, tyke care, tyke care, ’aughty!  Daon’t curl yer lip!  I shall myke a clean breast o’ my betryal when the time comes!