Mrs. L. [Dryly] Ah!—­Yu’um gwine to be very busy, that’s sartin. 
Can you sew?

L. Aida. [With a Smile] Nao.

Mrs. L. Don’ they tache Yu that, there?

L. Aida. [Blending contempt and a lingering curiosity] Nao.

Mrs. L.  ’Tes wonderful genteel.

L. Aida.  I can sing, though.

Mrs. L. Let’s ’ear yu, then.

L. Aida. [Shaking her head] I can ply the pianner.  I can ply a tune.

Mrs. L. Whose pianner?

L. Aida.  Mrs. Brahn’s when she’s gone aht.

Mrs. L. Well, yu are gettin’ edjucation!  Du they tache yu to love yore neighbours?

L. Aida. [Ineffably] Nao. [Straying to the window] Mrs. Lemmy, what’s the moon?

Mrs. L. The mune?  Us used to zay ‘twas made o’ crame cheese.

L. Aida.  I can see it.

Mrs. L. Ah!  Don’ yu never go wishin’ for it, me dear.

L. Aida.  I daon’t.

Mrs. L. Folks as wish for the mune never du no gude.

L. Aida. [Craning out, brilliant] I’m goin’ dahn in the street. 
I’ll come back for yer trahsers.

Mrs. L. Well; go yu, then, and get a breath o’ fresh air in yore chakes.  I’ll sune ’a feneshed.

L. Aida. [Solemnly] I’m goin’ to be a dancer, I am.

She rushes suddenly to the door, pulls it open, and is gone.

Mrs. L. [Looking after her, and talking to herself.] Ah!  ’Er’ve a-got all ’er troubles before ’er!  “Little lamb, a made’ee?” [Cackling] ’Tes a funny world, tu! [She sings to herself.]

         “There is a green ’ill far away
               Without a city wall,
          Where our dear-Lord was crucified,
               ’U died to save us all.”

The door is opened, and Lemmy comes in; a little man with a stubble of dark moustache and spiky dark hair; large, peculiar eyes he has, and a look of laying his ears back, a look of doubting, of perversity with laughter up the sleeve, that grows on those who have to do with gas and water.  He shuts the door.

Mrs. L. Well, Bob, I ’aven’t a-seen yu this tu weeks.

     Lemmy comes up to his mother, and sits down on a stool, sets a
     tool-bag between his knees, and speaks in a cockney voice.

Lemmy.  Well, old lydy o’ leisure!  Wot would y’ ’ave for supper, if yer could choose—­salmon wivaht the tin, an’ tipsy cyke?

Mrs. L. [Shaking her head and smiling blandly] That’s showy.  Toad in the ’ole I’d ‘ave—­and a glass o’ port wine.

Lemmy.  Providential. [He opens a tool-bag] Wot dyer think I’ve got yer?

Mrs. L. I ’ope yu’ve a-got yureself a job, my son!

Lemmy. [With his peculiar smile] Yus, or I couldn’t ’ave afforded yer this. [He takes out a bottle] Not ’arf!  This’ll put the blood into yer.  Pork wine—­once in the cellars of the gryte.  We’ll drink the ryyal family in this.