Polly. Yer won't. Me an' yer didn't arsk our old 'uns for leave to start courtin'. Liza ull go the way o' all flesh when 'er time comes. Andrew. Yus, but 'er time ain't come yet, not by a bloomin' long chalk, an' I'll make 'er know it. Polly. Yer leave Liza to me. Yer can do wot yer loike with Teddy Dawson an' welcome. Andrew. I'll make 'im wish 'e'd never bin born. Polly. I dunno. Yer've tried that road twice--with Martha's man an' Sally's. Andrew (_reminiscently, gloating_). I did an' all. They didn't 'ave much of a larky toime courtin'. I put strap abart both of 'em more than once. Polly. An' they only came the more. Andrew. Yus. They was spunky fellows. This bloke 'ull not take it that way. 'E'll cut an' run. Polly. I'm not so sure it's the right road to scare 'em off. Andrew. It's the only road I knows of. Do yer think yer knows a better? Polly. I dunno as I do. Hush! There's Liza comin' downstairs. Now, keep yer mouth shut till I've had my say. (_Enter l. Liza, a girl of sixteen, with black alpaca skirt to her ankles, gaudy stockings, cheap "flash" shoes, a purple blouse and a hat with coster feathers._) Polly. My word, Liza, yer do make yerself smart for evenin's. Yer might be courtin' the way yer've decked yerself. Liza. There's no 'arm in puttin' on a bit of finery, is there, mother? If yer've got things, yer might as well show 'em. Don't do 'em no good to lie by in a drawer. Polly. Be careful, girl. Yer'll 'ave some fellow takin' a fancy to yer if yer go down the Mile End Road in that gear. Foine feathers don't make foine birds. (_Liza tosses her head._) Andrew. Birds! Yus. Puts me in moind of that crazed canary wot comes rahnd the 'ouse whistlin' of an evenin'. (_A whistle pipes a little tune at back._) Rot it! There's the darned thing now. (_Unbuckling belt._) I'll make 'im whistle if I catch 'im. (_Liza runs to door c. to stop his way._) Now-then, Liza, out of my way if yer don't want a taste of this yerself. (_Swings strap round._) 'Ere, if yer've nothin' ter do in the 'ouse get orf to bed. Yer'll not go out this night. (_Exit swinging strap. Liza sits with her handkerchief to her eyes._) Polly (_softly_). Wot's to do with yer, Liza? Liza. Oh 'e'll 'urt 'im. Polly. 'Urt who? Is any one there? Lisa. I--I don't know. Polly (_roughly_). Yus yer do, yer young deceiver. Yer think yer've got a feller--yer that's just abart goin' into long skirts. I dunno what the world's comin' to. Young girls is that forward. Liza (_rising_). Will father 'urt 'im? Polly (_grimly_). Depends which on 'em's the better man. Liza (_tearfully_). Oh!