LEMMY. [Stopping] Little Aida, one o' vese dyes yer'll myke an actress. I can see it in yer fyce! [LITTLE AIDA looks at him wide-eyed.] MRS. L. Don't 'ee putt things into 'er 'ead, Bob! LEMMY. 'Tyn't 'er 'ead, old lydy--it's lower. She wants feedin'-- feed 'er an' she'll rise. [He strikes into the "Machichi"] Look at 'er naow. I tell yer there's a fortune in 'er. [LITTLE AIDA has put out her tongue.] MRS. L. I'd saner there was a gude 'eart in 'er than any fortune. L. AIDA. [Hugging her pile of trousers] It's thirteen pence three farthin's I've got to bring yer, an' a penny aht for me, mykes twelve three farthin's: [With the same little hop and sudden smile] I'm goin' to ride back on a bus, I am. LEMMY. Well, you myke the most of it up there; it's the nearest you'll ever git to 'eaven. MRS. L. Don' yu discourage 'er, Bob; she'm a gude little thing, an't yu, dear? L. AIDA. [Simply] Yus. LEMMY. Not 'arf. Wot c'her do wiv yesterdy's penny? L. AIDA. Movies. LEMMY. An' the dy before? L. AIDA. Movies. LEMMY. Wot'd I tell yer, old lydy--she's got vicious tystes, she'll finish in the theayter yep Tyke my tip, little Aida; you put every penny into yer foundytions, yer'll get on the boards quicker that wy. MRS. L. Don' yu pay no 'eed to his talk. L. AIDA. I daon't. Ice. Would yer like a sip aht o' my mug? L. AIDA. [Brilliant] Yus. MRS. L. Not at yore age, me dear, though it is teetotal. [LITTLE AIDA puts her head on one side, like a dog trying to understand.] LEMMY. Well, 'ave one o' my gum-drops. [Holds out a paper.] [LITTLE AIDA brilliant, takes a flat, dark substance from it, and puts it in her mouth.] Give me a kiss, an' I'll give yer a penny. [LITTLE AIDA shakes her head, and leans out of window.] Movver, she daon't know the valyer of money. MRS. L. Never mind 'im, me dear. L. AIDA. [Sucking the gum-drop--with difficulty] There's a taxi-cab at the corner. [LITTLE AIDA runs to the door. A figure stands in the doorway; she skids round him and out. THE PRESS comes in.] LEMMY. [Dubiously] Wat-oh! PRESS. Mr. Lemmy? LEMMY. The syme. PRESS. I'm from the Press. LEMMY. Blimy. PRESS. They told me at your place you wens very likely here. LEMMY. Yus I left Downin' Street a bit early to-dy! [He twangs the feddle-strings pompously.] PRESS. [Taking out his note-book and writing] "Fiddles while Rome is burning!" Mr. Lemmy, it's my business at this very critical time to find out what the nation's thinking. Now, as a representative working man-- LEMMY. That's me. PRESS. You can help me. What are your views? LEMMY. [Putting down fiddle] Voos? Sit dahn! [THE PRESS sits on the stool which LEMMY has vacated.] The Press--my Muvver. Seventy-seven. She's a wonder; 'yn't yer, old dear?