Jawbones. You’ve been listening to a lot of toffs. Easy enough for them to talk about wimmen not being domestic drudges. They keep a cook to do it. They don’t pity ’e for being a down-trodden slive, spending sixteen hours a d’y in their kitchen with an evening out once a week. When you marry it will be to a bloke like me, a working man . . .
Ginger. Working! (She follows it with a shrill laugh.)
Jawbones. Yus. There’s always a class as laughs when you mention the word “work.” Them as knows wot it is, don’t. I’ve been at it since six o’clock this morning, carrying a ladder, a can of paste weighing twenty pounds, and two ’undred double royal posters. You try it! When ’e comes ’ome, ’e’ll want ’is victuals. If you’ve got ’em ready for ’im and are looking nice—no reason why you shouldn’t—and feeling amiable, you’ll get on very well together. If you are going to argue with ’im about woman’s sphere, you’ll get the worst of it.
Ginger. You always was a bully.
Jawbones. Not always. Remember last Bank ’oliday? (He winks.)
Ginger. (She tries not to give in.)
Jawbones. ’Ave a cup of tea. (He pours it out for her.)
Ginger. (The natural woman steals in—she sits.)
Jawbones. ’Ow are they doing you, fairly well?
Ginger. Oh! Well, nothing to grumble at.