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.