Lemmy.  ’Allo, little Aida!

L. Aida.  ‘Allo, I been follerin’ the corfin.  It’s better than an ’orse dahn!

Mrs. L. What coffin?

L. Aida.  Why, ‘er’s wot died o’ starvytion up the street.  They’re goin’ to tyke it to ’Yde Pawk, and ’oller.

Mrs. L. Well, never yu mind wot they’m goin’ to du:  Yu wait an’ take my trousers like a gude gell.

     [She puts her mug aside and takes up her unfinished pair of
     trousers.  But the wine has entered her fingers, and strength to
     push the needle through is lacking.]

Lemmy. [Tuning his fiddle] Wot’ll yer ’ave, little Aida?  “Dead March in Saul” or “When the fields was white wiv dysies”?

L. Aida. [With a hop and a brilliant smile] Aoh yus!  “When the fields”——­

Mrs. L. [With a gesture of despair] Deary me!  I ’aven’t a-got the strength!

Lemmy.  Leave ’em alone, old dear!  No one’ll be goin’ aht wivaht trahsers to-night ’cos yer leaves that one undone.  Little Aida, fold ’em up!

[Little Aida methodically folds the five finished pairs of trousers into a pile.  Lemmy begins playing.  A smile comes on the face of Mrs. L, who is rubbing her fingers.  Little Aida, trousers over arm, goes and stares at Lemmy playing.]

Lemmy. [Stopping] Little Aida, one o’ vese dyes yer’ll myke an actress.  I can see it in yer fyce!

     [Little Aida looks at him wide-eyed.]

Mrs. L. Don’t ’ee putt things into ’er ’ead, Bob!

Lemmy.  ’Tyn’t ’er ’ead, old lydy—­it’s lower.  She wants feedin’—­ feed ‘er an’ she’ll rise. [He strikes into the “Machichi”] Look at ’er naow.  I tell yer there’s a fortune in ’er.

     [Little Aida has put out her tongue.]

Mrs. L. I’d saner there was a gude ’eart in ’er than any fortune.

L. Aida. [Hugging her pile of trousers] It’s thirteen pence three farthin’s I’ve got to bring yer, an’ a penny aht for me, mykes twelve three farthin’s:  [With the same little hop and sudden smile] I’m goin’ to ride back on a bus, I am.

Lemmy.  Well, you myke the most of it up there; it’s the nearest you’ll ever git to ’eaven.

Mrs. L. Don’ yu discourage ’er, Bob; she’m a gude little thing, an’t yu, dear?

L. Aida. [Simply] Yus.

Lemmy.  Not ’arf.  Wot c’her do wiv yesterdy’s penny?

L. Aida.  Movies.

Lemmy.  An’ the dy before?

L. Aida.  Movies.

Lemmy.  Wot’d I tell yer, old lydy—­she’s got vicious tystes, she’ll finish in the theayter yep Tyke my tip, little Aida; you put every penny into yer foundytions, yer’ll get on the boards quicker that wy.