Ginger. Not if the men be’ave themselves.
Mrs. Chinn. Perhaps they’re doing their best, poor things! It don’t do to be too impatient with them.
Ginger. Was talking to old Dot-and-carry-one the other d’y. You know who I mean—chap with the wooden leg as ’as ’is pitch outside the “George.” “Wot do you wimmen want worrying yourselves about things outside the ’ome?” ’e says to me. “You’ve got the children,” ’e says. “Oh,” I says, “and whose fault’s that, I’d like to know? You wait till we’ve got the vote,” I says, “we’ll soon show you—”
(Sigsby enters. Sigsby is a dapper little man, very brisk and bustling—hirsute—looks as if he wanted dusting, cleaning up generally.)
Sigsby. That young blackguard come back yet?
Ginger. (At sound of Sigsby’s voice she springs up. At first is about to offer excuses for being found seated, but recollects herself.)
Mrs. Chinn. Which one, sir?
Sigsby. Young Jawbones—what’s he call himself?—Gordon.
Mrs. Chinn. Not yet, sir.
Sigsby. (Grunts.) My chop ready?