Higgins [going to her solemnly] Just so.  I intended to call your attention to that [He passes on to Pickering, who is enjoying the conversation immensely].  It is these little things that matter, Pickering.  Take care of the pence and the pounds will take care of themselves is as true of personal habits as of money. [He comes to anchor on the hearthrug, with the air of a man in an unassailable position].

Mrs. Pearce.  Yes, sir.  Then might I ask you not to come down to breakfast in your dressing-gown, or at any rate not to use it as a napkin to the extent you do, sir.  And if you would be so good as not to eat everything off the same plate, and to remember not to put the porridge saucepan out of your hand on the clean tablecloth, it would be a better example to the girl.  You know you nearly choked yourself with a fishbone in the jam only last week.

Higgins [routed from the hearthrug and drifting back to the piano] I may do these things sometimes in absence of mind; but surely I don’t do them habitually. [Angrily] By the way:  my dressing-gown smells most damnably of benzine.

Mrs. Pearce.  No doubt it does, Mr. Higgins.  But if you will wipe your fingers—­

Higgins [yelling] Oh very well, very well:  I’ll wipe them in my hair in future.

Mrs. Pearce.  I hope you’re not offended, Mr. Higgins.

Higgins [shocked at finding himself thought capable of an unamiable sentiment] Not at all, not at all.  You’re quite right, Mrs. Pearce:  I shall be particularly careful before the girl.  Is that all?

Mrs. Pearce.  No, sir.  Might she use some of those Japanese dresses you brought from abroad?  I really can’t put her back into her old things.

Higgins.  Certainly.  Anything you like.  Is that all?

Mrs. Pearce.  Thank you, sir.  That’s all. [She goes out].

Higgins.  You know, Pickering, that woman has the most extraordinary ideas about me.  Here I am, a shy, diffident sort of man.  I’ve never been able to feel really grown-up and tremendous, like other chaps.  And yet she’s firmly persuaded that I’m an arbitrary overbearing bossing kind of person.  I can’t account for it.

Mrs. Pearce returns.

Mrs. Pearce.  If you please, sir, the trouble’s beginning already.  There’s a dustman downstairs, Alfred Doolittle, wants to see you.  He says you have his daughter here.

Pickering [rising] Phew!  I say! [He retreats to the hearthrug].

Higgins [promptly] Send the blackguard up.

Mrs. Pearce.  Oh, very well, sir. [She goes out].

Pickering.  He may not be a blackguard, Higgins.

Higgins.  Nonsense.  Of course he’s a blackguard.

Pickering.  Whether he is or not, I’m afraid we shall have some trouble with him.