P. Well, I should think you'd lemon enough in you already.
C. I 'ate kids, there—and that's the truth of it! It makes me downright sick to see 'em dressed out, and giving themselves the airs and graces of grown-ups. (To Small Child.) Yes, my little dear, it's a worltz this time. (To Pianist.) Strike up, young P. and O! (A little later.) I'm blest if I don't believe you're enjoying this, Pianner, settin' there with that sort of a dreamy grin on your pasty countinance!
P. And if I am, where's the harm of it?
C. It's easy to see you ain't bin at it long, or you wouldn't take that interest in it. Much they thank you for takin' a interest, these bloated children of a pampered aristocracy! Why, they don't mind you and me more than the drugget under their feet. Even gutter kids have got manners enough to thank the Italian as plays the orgin for 'em to dance to. Are we ever thanked? I arsk you.
P. The Italian plays for nothing. We don't.
C. There you go, redoocin' everything to coppers. You're arguin' beside the question, you are. Ever see a well-dressed kid give a orgin a penny without there was a monkey a-top of it? I never did. If you chained a monkey to your pianner now, they might condescend to look at yer now and then—not unless.
P. Well, you can't deny they're a nice-looking set of children here. Look at that one with the long hair, in the plush—like a little Princess, she is.
C. And p'raps she ain't aware of it, either! Why, there's that little sister o' yours, that's got hair just as long, ah, and 'ud look as pretty too, if she'd a little more colour; but you can't have colour without capital. It's 'igh-feeding does it all, and money wrung from the working-classes, like you and me.
P. I don't know what you call yourself. I'm a professional, and see no shame in it.
C. You can be as purfessional as you please, but you needn't be poor-spirited. Come on; pound away! Ain't you got a uglier worltz than that?