Liza, reassured, steals back to her chair.

Mrs. Pearce [to Pickering] Well, did you ever hear anything like that, sir?

Pickering [laughing heartily] Never, Mrs. Pearce:  never.

Higgins [patiently] What’s the matter?

Mrs. Pearce.  Well, the matter is, sir, that you can’t take a girl up like that as if you were picking up a pebble on the beach.

Higgins.  Why not?

Mrs. Pearce.  Why not!  But you don’t know anything about her.  What about her parents?  She may be married.

Liza.  Garn!

Higgins.  There!  As the girl very properly says, Garn!  Married indeed!  Don’t you know that a woman of that class looks a worn out drudge of fifty a year after she’s married.

Liza.  Who’d marry me?

Higgins [suddenly resorting to the most thrillingly beautiful low tones in his best elocutionary style] By George, Eliza, the streets will be strewn with the bodies of men shooting themselves for your sake before I’ve done with you.

Mrs. Pearce.  Nonsense, sir.  You mustn’t talk like that to her.

Liza [rising and squaring herself determinedly] I’m going away.  He’s off his chump, he is.  I don’t want no balmies teaching me.

Higgins [wounded in his tenderest point by her insensibility to his elocution] Oh, indeed!  I’m mad, am I?  Very well, Mrs. Pearce:  you needn’t order the new clothes for her.  Throw her out.

Liza [whimpering] Nah—­ow.  You got no right to touch me.

Mrs. Pearce.  You see now what comes of being saucy. [Indicating the door] This way, please.

Liza [almost in tears] I didn’t want no clothes.  I wouldn’t have taken them [she throws away the handkerchief].  I can buy my own clothes.

Higgins [deftly retrieving the handkerchief and intercepting her on her reluctant way to the door] You’re an ungrateful wicked girl.  This is my return for offering to take you out of the gutter and dress you beautifully and make a lady of you.

Mrs. Pearce.  Stop, Mr. Higgins.  I won’t allow it.  It’s you that are wicked.  Go home to your parents, girl; and tell them to take better care of you.

Liza.  I ain’t got no parents.  They told me I was big enough to earn my own living and turned me out.

Mrs. Pearce.  Where’s your mother?

Liza.  I ain’t got no mother.  Her that turned me out was my sixth stepmother.  But I done without them.  And I’m a good girl, I am.

Higgins.  Very well, then, what on earth is all this fuss about?  The girl doesn’t belong to anybody—­is no use to anybody but me. [He goes to Mrs. Pearce and begins coaxing].  You can adopt her, Mrs. Pearce:  I’m sure a daughter would be a great amusement to you.  Now don’t make any more fuss.  Take her downstairs; and—­