Lord W. That hits hard, Mr. Lemmy.

Lemmy.  Daon’t worry!  Yer cawn’t ‘elp bein’ born in the purple!

Lord W. Ah!  Tell me, what would you do in my place?

Lemmy.  Why—­as the nobleman said in ’is well-known wy:  “Sit in me Club winder an’ watch it ryne on the dam people!” That’s if I was a average nobleman!  If I was a bit more noble, I might be tempted to come the kind’earted on twenty thou’ a year.  Some prefers yachts, or ryce ’orses.  But philanthropy on the ’ole is syfer, in these dyes.

Lord W. So you think one takes to it as a sort of insurance, Mr.
Lemmy?  Is that quite fair?

Lemmy.  Well, we’ve all got a weakness towards bein’ kind, somewhere abaht us.  But the moment wealf comes in, we ’yn’t wot I call single-’earted.  If yer went into the foundytions of your wealf—­would yer feel like ‘avin’ any?  It all comes from uvver people’s ’ard, unpleasant lybour—­it’s all built on Muvver as yer might sy.  An’ if yer daon’t get rid o’ some of it in bein’ kind—­yer daon’t feel syfe nor comfy.

Lord W. [Twisting his moustache] Your philosophy is very pessimistic.

Lemmy.  Well, I calls meself an optimist; I sees the worst of everyfink.  Never disappynted, can afford to ’ave me smile under the blackest sky.  When deaf is squeezin’ of me windpipe, I shall ’ave a laugh in it!  Fact is, if yer’ve ‘ad to do wiv gas an’ water pipes, yer can fyce anyfing. [The distant Marseillaise blares up] ’Ark at the revolution!

Lord W. [Rather desperately] I know—­hunger and all the rest of it! 
And here am I, a rich man, and don’t know what the deuce to do.

Lemmy.  Well, I’ll tell yer.  Throw yer cellars open, an’ while the populyce is gettin’ drunk, sell all yer ‘ave an’ go an’ live in Ireland; they’ve got the millennium chronic over there.

     [Lord William utters a short, vexed laugh, and begins to walk
     about.]

That’s speakin’ as a practical man.  Speakin’ as a synt “Bruvvers, all I ‘ave is yours.  To-morrer I’m goin’ dahn to the Lybour Exchynge to git put on the wytin’ list, syme as you!”

Lord W. But, d—–­it, man, there we should be, all together!  Would that help?

Lemmy.  Nao; but it’d syve a lot o’ blood.

     [Lord William stops abruptly, and looks first at Lemmy, then at
     the cooler, still cohered with the Chinese mat.]

Yer thought the Englishman could be taught to shed blood wiv syfety.  Not ’im!  Once yer git ’im into an ’abit, yer cawn’t git ’im out of it agyne.  ‘E’ll go on sheddin’ blood mechanical—­Conservative by nyture.  An’ ‘e won’t myke nuffin’ o’ yours.  Not even the Press wiv ’is ’oneyed words’ll sty ’is ’and.

Lord W. And what do you suggest we could have done, to avoid trouble?