Workman's Wife. Ho no! We ain't women workers, I suppose, we ain't!
Laundress. Then I should like ter know where they find 'em. (Sips "white satin" and sniffs.)
Shop Girl (to Sempstress). 'Ere Miss Mivvins, you're no hand of a scholard, and know all erbout everythink. Wot is this Nottingham Goose Fair, anyhow?
Sempstress. Well, it is not a goose fair, exactly Emma—not in the sense of the old song, at any rate. Seems to me it's a meeting of ladies of title, who don't know what work is, to talk about women of no title who have to do it. (Sighs.) But I suppose they mean well, poor dears.
Young Machinist (pallid and cramped). Well, Miss Mivvins, no doubt as they do. But oh dear me, what good are they going to do the likes of us? My knees crackle, my back aches, and my head swims. Thanks, yes, I don't mind if I do. (Drinks.) Ah! that warms and straightens one out a bit! But if, as you say, these ladies don't know what work is, one of 'em should do my little bit at the warehouse for a week.
Laundress. Ah! or mine, at the wash-tub.
Workman's Wife. Or mine at the wash-tub and all over the shop as well, as I 'olds is the 'ardest of all, seeing as how it ain't never done.
Sempstress (mildly). Ah, yes; but you have your husband and children for company, whereas I——Oh, the long, dreary loneliness of it!
Tailoress. Lookee 'ere, Liz, don't you talk about the old man being cumpny, not till you know wot sich "cumpny" is. You never got a black heye like this; and do you 'appen to know 'ow a kick from a 'obnailed 'ighlow feels in the ribs?
Sempstress (gently). Well, no, my poor soul; and perhaps I'm ungrateful to grumble.