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.

[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.