MRS. L. [Slightly hypnotised] How 'e du talk! The gas goes to yore
'ead, I think!

LEMMY. I did the gas to-dy in the cellars of an 'ouse where the wine
was mountains 'igh. A regiment couldn't 'a drunk it. Marble pillars
in the 'all, butler broad as an observytion balloon, an' four
conscientious khaki footmen. When the guns was roarin' the talk was
all for no more o' them glorious weeds-style an' luxury was orf. See
wot it is naow. You've got a bare crust in the cupboard 'ere, I
works from 'and to mouth in a glutted market--an' there they stand
abaht agyne in their britches in the 'oases o' the gryte. I was
reg'lar overcome by it. I left a thing in that cellar--I left a
thing . . . . It'll be a bit ork'ard for me to-mower. [Drinks
from his mug.]

MRS. L. [Placidly, feeling the warmth of the little she has drunk]
What thing?

LEMMY. Wot thing? Old lydy, ye're like a winkle afore yer opens
'er--I never see anything so peaceful. 'Ow dyer manage it?

MRS. L. Settin' 'ere and thenkin'.

LEA. Wot abaht?

MRS. L. We-el--Money, an' the works o' God.

LEMMY. Ah! So yer give me a thought sometimes.