Lemmy. [Suddenly] Wot is ’er voo of life?  Shall I tell yer mine?  Life’s a disease—­a blinkin’ oak-apple!  Daon’t myke no mistyke.  An’ ’umen life’s a yumourous disease; that’s all the difference.  Why—­ wot else can it be?  See the bloomin’ promise an’ the blighted performance—­different as a ’eadline to the noos inside.  But yer couldn’t myke Muvver see vat—­not if yer talked to ’er for a wok.  Muvver still believes in fings.  She’s a country gell; at a ’undred and fifty she’ll be a country gell, won’t yer, old lydy?

Mrs. L. Well, ’tesn’t never been ’ome to me in London.  I lived in the country forty year—­I did my lovin’ there; I burried father therr.  Therr bain’t nothin’ in life, yu know, but a bit o’ lovin’—­ all said an’ done; bit o’ lovin’, with the wind, an’ the stars out.

Lemmy. [In a loud apologetic whisper] She ’yn’t often like this.  I told yer she’d got a glawss o’ port in ’er.

Mrs. L.  ‘Tes a brave pleasure, is lovin’.  I likes to zee et in young folk.  I likes to zee ’em kissin’; shows the ’eart in ’em.  ’Tes the ’eart makes the world go round; ‘tesn’t nothin’ else, in my opinion.

Press. [Writing] “—­sings the swan song of the heart.”——­

Mrs. L. [Overhearing] No, I never yeard a swan sing—­never!  But I tell ’ee what I ’eve ‘eard; the Bells singin’ in th’ orchard ‘angin’ up the clothes to dry, an’ the cuckoos callin’ back to ’em. [Smiling] There’s a-many songs in the country-the ’eart is freelike in th’ country!

Lemmy. [Soto voce] Gi’ me the Strand at ar’ past nine.

Press. [Writing] “Town and country——­”

Mrs. L.  ’Tidn’t like that in London; one day’s jest like another. 
Not but what therr’s a ‘eap o’ kind’eartedness ’ere.

Lemmy. [Gloomily] Kind-’eartedness!  I daon’t fink “Boys an’ Gells come out to play.”

     [He plays the old tune on his fiddle.]

Mrs. L. [Singing] “Boys an’ Gells come out to play.  The mune is shinin’ bright as day.” [She laughs] I used to sing like a lark when I was a gell.

     [Little Aida enters.]

L. Aida.  There’s ‘undreds follerin’ the corfin.  ‘Yn’t you goin’, Mr. Lemmy—­it’s dahn your wy!

Lemmy. [Dubiously] Well yus—­I s’pose they’ll miss me.

L. Aida.  Aoh!  Tyke me!

Press.  What’s this?

Lemmy.  The revolution in ’Yde Pawk.

Press. [Struck] In Hyde Park?  The very thing.  I’ll take you down. 
My taxi’s waiting.

L. Aida.  Yus; it’s breathin’ ’ard, at the corner.

Press. [Looking at his watch] Ah! and Mrs. Lemmy.  There’s an Anti-Sweating Meeting going on at a house in Park Lane.  We can get there in twenty minutes if we shove along.  I want you to tell them about the trouser-making.  You’ll be a sensation!