[He apostrophises the portrait of Queen Victoria.]

Mrs. L. Ah!  She was a praaper gude queen.  I see ’er once, when ’er was bein’ burried.

Lemmy.  Ryalties—­I got nothin’ to sy agynst ’em in this country.  But the STYTE ’as got to ’ave its pipes seen to.  The ’ole show’s goin’ up pop.  Yer’ll wyke up one o’ these dyes, old lydy, and find yerself on the roof, wiv nuffin’ between yer an’ the grahnd.

Mrs. L. I can’t tell what yu’m talkin’ about.

Lemmy.  We’re goin’ to ’ave a triumpherat in this country Liberty, Equality, Fraternity; an’ if yer arsk me, they won’t be in power six months before they’ve cut each other’s throats.  But I don’t care—­I want to see the blood flow! (Dispassionately) I don’ care ’oose blood it is.  I want to see it flow!

Mrs. L. [Indulgently] Yu’m a funny boy, that’s sartin.

Lemmy. [Carving at the cork with a knife] This ’ere cork is like Sasiety—­rotten; it’s old—­old an’ moulderin’. [He holds up a bit of cork on the point of the knife] Crumblin’ under the wax, it is.  In goes the screw an’ out comes the cork. [With unction]—­an’ the blood flows. [Tipping the bottle, he lets a drop fall into the middle of his hand, and licks it up.  Gazing with queer and doubting commiseration at has mother] Well, old dear, wot shall we ’ave it aht of—­the gold loving-cup, or—­what?  ’Ave yer supper fust, though, or it’ll go to yer ’ead! [He goes to the cupboard and taken out a disk in which a little bread is sopped in a little’ milk] Cold pap!  ’Ow can yer?  ’Yn’t yer got a kipper in the ’ouse?

Mrs. L. [Admiring the bottle] Port wine!  ’Tis a brave treat!  I’ll ’ave it out of the “Present from Margitt,” Bob.  I tuk ’ee therr by excursion when yu was six months.  Yu ‘ad a shrimp an’ it choked yu praaperly.  Yu was always a squeamy little feller.  I can’t never think ‘ow yu managed in the war-time, makin’ they shells.

     Lemmy, who has brought to the table two mugs and blown the duet
     out of; them, fills them with port, and hands one to his mother,
     who is eating her bread and milk.

Lemmy.  Ah!  Nothin’ worried me, ‘cept the want o’ soap.

Mrs. L. [Cackling gently] So it du still, then!  Luke at yore face.  Yu never was a clean boy, like Jim.

     [She puts out a thin finger and touches his cheek, whereon is a
     black smudge.]

Lemmy. [Scrubbing his cheek with his sleeve.] All right!  Y’see, I come stryte ‘ere, to get rid o’ this.

     [He drinks.]

Mrs. L. [Eating her bread and milk] Tes a pity yu’m not got a wife to see’t yu wash yureself.

Lemmy. [Goggling] Wife!  Not me—­I daon’t want ter myke no food for pahder.  Wot oh!—­they said, time o’ the war—­ye’re fightin’ for yer children’s ’eritage.  Well; wot’s the ’eritage like, now we’ve got it?  Empty as a shell before yer put the ’igh explosive in.  Wot’s it like? [Warming to his theme] Like a prophecy in the pypers—­not a bit more substantial.