stubble of dark moustache and spiky dark hair; large, peculiar
eyes he has, and a look of laying his ears back, a look of
doubting, of perversity with laughter up the sleeve, that grows
on those who have to do with gas and water. He shuts the door.

MRS. L. Well, Bob, I 'aven't a-seen yu this tu weeks.

LEMMY comes up to his mother, and sits down on a stool, sets a
tool-bag between his knees, and speaks in a cockney voice.

LEMMY. Well, old lydy o' leisure! Wot would y' 'ave for supper, if
yer could choose--salmon wivaht the tin, an' tipsy cyke?

MRS. L. [Shaking her head and smiling blandly] That's showy. Toad
in the 'ole I'd 'ave--and a glass o' port wine.

LEMMY. Providential. [He opens a tool-bag] Wot dyer think I've got
yer?

MRS. L. I 'ope yu've a-got yureself a job, my son!

LEMMY. [With his peculiar smile] Yus, or I couldn't 'ave afforded
yer this. [He takes out a bottle] Not 'arf! This'll put the blood
into yer. Pork wine--once in the cellars of the gryte. We'll drink
the ryyal family in this.

[He apostrophises the portrait of Queen Victoria.]

MRS. L. Ah! She was a praaper gude queen. I see 'er once, when 'er
was bein' burried.