Mrs. L. Don’ yu pay no ’eed to his talk.

L. Aida.  I daon’t.

Ice.  Would yer like a sip aht o’ my mug?

L. Aida. [Brilliant] Yus.

Mrs. L. Not at yore age, me dear, though it is teetotal.

     [Little Aida puts her head on one side, like a dog trying to
     understand.]

Lemmy.  Well, ‘ave one o’ my gum-drops.

     [Holds out a paper.]

     [Little Aida brilliant, takes a flat, dark substance from it,
     and puts it in her mouth.]

Give me a kiss, an’ I’ll give yer a penny.

     [Little Aida shakes her head, and leans out of window.]

Movver, she daon’t know the valyer of money.

Mrs. L. Never mind ’im, me dear.

L. Aida. [Sucking the gum-drop—­with difficulty] There’s a taxi-cab at the corner.

     [Little Aida runs to the door.  A figure stands in the doorway;
     she skids round him and out.  The press comes in.]

Lemmy. [Dubiously] Wat-oh!

Press.  Mr. Lemmy?

Lemmy.  The syme.

Press.  I’m from the Press.

Lemmy.  Blimy.

Press.  They told me at your place you wens very likely here.

Lemmy.  Yus I left Downin’ Street a bit early to-dy! [He twangs the feddle-strings pompously.]

Press. [Taking out his note-book and writing] “Fiddles while Rome is burning!” Mr. Lemmy, it’s my business at this very critical time to find out what the nation’s thinking.  Now, as a representative working man—­

Lemmy.  That’s me.

Press.  You can help me.  What are your views?

Lemmy. [Putting down fiddle] Voos?  Sit dahn!

     [The press sits on the stool which Lemmy has vacated.]

The Press—­my Muvver.  Seventy-seven.  She’s a wonder; ’yn’t yer, old dear?

Press.  Very happy to make your acquaintance, Ma’am. [He writes] “Mrs. Lemmy, one of the veterans of industry——­” By the way, I’ve jest passed a lot of people following a coffin.

Lemmy.  Centre o’ the cyclone—­cyse o’ starvytion; you ’ad ’er in the pyper this mornin’.

Press.  Ah! yes!  Tragic occurrence. [Looking at the trousers.] Hub of the Sweated Industries just here.  I especially want to get at the heart——­

Mrs. L.  ’Twasn’t the ’eart, ’twas the stomach.

Press. [Writing] “Mrs. Lemmy goes straight to the point.”

Lemmy.  Mister, is it my voos or Muvver’s yer want?

Press.  Both.

Lemmy.  ’Cos if yer get Muvver’s, yer won’t ’ave time for mine.  I tell yer stryte [Confidentially] she’s get a glawss a’ port wine in ’er.  Naow, mind yer, I’m not anxious to be intervooed.  On the other ’and, anyfink I might ‘eve to sy of valyer——­There is a clawss o’ politician that ‘as nuffn to sy—­Aoh! an’ daon’t ’e sy it just!  I dunno wot pyper yer represent.