VOICE. Wet's this? Throwin' things? Mind aht, or we'll smash yer winders!
[As the voices in chorus chant: "Bread! Bread!" LITTLE ANNE, night-gowned, darts in from the hall. She is followed by MISS STOKES. They stand listening.]
LORD W. [To the Crowd] My friends, you've come to the wrong shop. There's nobody in London more sympathetic with you. [The crowd laughs hoarsely.] [Whispering] Look out, old girl; they can see your shoulders. [LORD WILLIAM moves back a step.] If I were a speaker, I could make you feel——
VOICE. Look at his white weskit! Blood-suckers—fattened on the people!
[JAMES dives his hand at the wine cooler.]
LORD W. I've always said the Government ought to take immediate steps——
VOICE. To shoot us dahn.
LORD W. Not a bit. To relieve the—er——
LADY W. [Prompting] Distress.
LADY W. Distress, and ensure—er—ensure