JANET. The room’s locked up. JAWBONES. There’s one at 118, High Street. Shall I go, miss? PHOEBE. No, thanks. I’ll go myself. Oh, what about the band? JANET. Lady Mogton says she’d like it. If it isn’t too tired. GINGER. It’s at Sell’s Coffee-’ouse in Piggott Street. I ’eard them practising. PHOEBE. Good. I shan’t be more than a few minutes. ST. HERBERT. I’ll come with you, if I may? I’ve got some news that may be of use to you. PHOEBE. Do. (_To_ GINGER.) Stop here, I may want you. (PHOEBE _and_ ST. HERBERT _go out_.) JANET. How was Mrs. Chilvers seeming this afternoon? GINGER. Never ’eard ’er speak better, miss. JANET. Did you stop to the end? GINGER. Not quite. Mrs. Spender wanted some shopping done. (JANET _goes out_.) GINGER. Can I ’elp yer? JAWBONES. Yer might hold the piper while I blow. (_The fire begins to burn_.) GINGER. It’s getting brighter. JAWBONES. That’s caught it. GINGER. Wonderful what a little coaxing will do. JAWBONES. (_He is still squatting on his heels_, _folding up the paper_. _He looks up_.) Ain’t yer ever thought of that, instead of worrying about the vote? GINGER. (_She moves away_.) You don’t understand us wimmin. JAWBONES. (_He has risen_. _He pauses in his folding of the paper_.) Don’t say that. GINGER. Why should we coax yer—for our rights? JAWBONES. Because it’s the easiest way of getting ’em. GINGER. (_She has become oratorical_.) Our appeal is not to man (_with upraised hand_) but to Justice! JAWBONES. Oh! And what does the lidy say? GINGER. (_Descending_.) ’Ow do yer mean? JAWBONES. To your appeal. Is she goin’ to give ’em to yer? You tike my tip: if yer in a ’urry, you get a bit on account—from Man. ’Ere. (_He dives into his pocket_, _produces_, _wrapped up in tissue paper_, _a ring_, _which he exhibits to her_.) That’s a bit more in your line. GINGER. (_Her eyes sparkle_. _She takes the ring in her hand_. _Then problems come to her_.) Why do yer want me, William? JAWBONES. Because, in spite of all, I love yer. GINGER. (_She looks into the future_.) What will I be? A general servant, without wages. JAWBONES. The question, as it seems to me, is, which of us two is the biggest fool? Instead of thirty bob a week in my pocket to spend as I like—guess I’ll ’ave to be content with three ’alf-crowns. GINGER. Seven an’ six! Rather a lot, Bill, out o’ thirty bob. Don’t leave much for me an’ the children. JAWBONES. I shall ’ave to get my dinners. GINGER. I could mike yer somethin’ tasty to tike with yer. Then with, say—three shillings— JAWBONES. ’Ere—(_He is on the point of snatching back the ring_. _He encounters her eyes_. _There is a moment’s battle_. _The Eternal Feminine conquers_.) Will yer always look as sweet as yer do now? GINGER. Always, Bill. So long as yer good to me!