PRESS. A taxi-ride!
MRS. L. [Placidly] Ah! I know'em. They'm very busy things.
LEMMY. Muvver shuns notority. [Sotto voce to THE PRESS] But you
watch me! I'll rouse 'er.
[He takes up his fiddle and sits on the window seat. Above the
little houses on the opposite side of the street, the moon has
risen in the dark blue sky, so that the cloud shaped like a
beast seems leaping over it. LEMMY plays the first notes of the
Marseillaise. A black cat on the window-sill outside looks in,
hunching its back. LITTLE AIDA barks at her. MRS. LEMMY
struggles to her feet, sweeping the empty dish and spoon to the
floor in the effort.]
The dish ran awy wiv the spoon! That's right, old lydy! [He stops
playing.]
MRS. L. [Smiling, and moving her hands] I like a bit o' music. It
du that move 'ee.
PRESS. Bravo, Mrs. Lemmy. Come on!
LEMMY. Come on, old dear! We'll be in time for the revolution yet.
MRS. L. 'Tes 'earin' the Old 'Undred again!
LEMMY. [To THE PRESS] She 'yn't been aht these two years. [To his
mother, who has put up her hands to her head] Nao, never mind yer
'at. [To THE PRESS] She 'yn't got none! [Aloud] No West-End lydy
wears anyfink at all in the evenin'!
MRS. L. 'Ow'm I lukin', Bob?
LEMMY. First-clawss; yer've got a colour fit to toast by. We'll
show 'em yer've got a kick in yer.
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