L. Anne.  Why?

Lemmy.  As I daon’t believe in a life beyond the gryve, I might be tempted to send yer there.

L. Anne.  What is the gryve?

Lemmy.  Where little gells goes to.

L. Anne.  Oh, when?

Lemmy. [Pretending to look at a match, which is not there] Well, I dunno if I’ve got time to finish yer this minute.  Sy to-mower at. ’arf past.

L. Anne.  Half past what?

Lemmy. [Despairingly] ’Arf past wot!

     [The sound of applause is heard.]

James.  That’s ’is Grace.  ‘E’s gettin’ wickets, too.

     [Poulder entering from the door.]

Poulder.  Lord William is slippin’ in.

     [He makes a cabalistic sign with his head.  Jeers crosses to the
     door.  Lemmy looks dubiously at Poulder.]

Lemmy. [Suddenly—­as to himself] Wot oh!  I am the portly one!

Poulder. [Severely] Any such allusion aggeravates your offence.

Lemmy.  Oh, ah!  Look ’ere, it was a corked bottle.  Now, tyke care, tyke care, ’aughty!  Daon’t curl yer lip!  I shall myke a clean breast o’ my betryal when the time comes!

[There is a alight movement of the door.  Anne makes a dive towards the table but is arrested by Poulder grasping her waistband.  Lord William slips in, followed by the press, on whom James and Thomas close the door too soon.]

Half of the press. [Indignantly] Look out!

James.  Do you want him in or out, me Lord?

Lemmy.  I sy, you’ve divided the Press; ’e was unanimous.

     [The footmen let the press through.]

Lord W. [To the press] I’m so sorry.

Lemmy.  Would yer like me to see to ’is gas?

Lord W. So you’re my friend of the cellars?

Lemmy. [Uneasy] I daon’t deny it.

     [Poulder begins removing little Anne.]

L. Anne.  Let me stay, Daddy; I haven’t seen anything yet!  If I go, I shall only have to come down again when they loot the house.  Listen!

     [The hoarse strains of the Marseillaise are again heard from the
     distance.]

Lord W. [Blandly] Take her up, Poulder!

L. Anne.  Well, I’m coming down again—­and next time I shan’t have any clothes on, you know.

     [They vanish between the pillars.  Lord William makes a sign of
     dismissal.  The footman file out.]

Lemmy. [Admiringly] Luv’ly pyces!

Lord W. [Pleasantly] Now then; let’s have our talk, Mr.——­

Lemmy.  Lemmy.