off her hands; for before Eliza came, she had to have to find
things and remind me of my appointments. But she's got some silly
bee in her bonnet about Eliza. She keeps saying "You don't think,
sir": doesn't she, Pick?

PICKERING. Yes: that's the formula. "You don't think, sir."
That's the end of every conversation about Eliza.

HIGGINS. As if I ever stop thinking about the girl and her
confounded vowels and consonants. I'm worn out, thinking about
her, and watching her lips and her teeth and her tongue, not to
mention her soul, which is the quaintest of the lot.

MRS. HIGGINS. You certainly are a pretty pair of babies, playing
with your live doll.

HIGGINS. Playing! The hardest job I ever tackled: make no mistake
about that, mother. But you have no idea how frightfully
interesting it is to take a human being and change her into a
quite different human being by creating a new speech for her.
It's filling up the deepest gulf that separates class from class
and soul from soul.

PICKERING [drawing his chair closer to Mrs. Higgins and bending
over to her eagerly] Yes: it's enormously interesting. I assure
you, Mrs. Higgins, we take Eliza very seriously. Every week--
every day almost--there is some new change. [Closer again] We
keep records of every stage--dozens of gramophone disks and
photographs--