CHAPTER I.

Next day at 11 a.m. Higgins’s laboratory in Wimpole Street. It is arnroom on the first floor, looking on the street, and was meant for therndrawing-room. The double doors are in the middle of the back hall; andrnpersons entering find in the corner to their right two tall filerncabinets at right angles to one another against the walls. In thisrncorner stands a flat writing-table, on which are a phonograph, arnlaryngoscope, a row of tiny organ pipes with a bellows, a set of lamprnchimneys for singing flames with burners attached to a gas plug in thernwall by an indiarubber tube, several tuning-forks of different sizes, arnlife-size image of half a human head, showing in section the vocalrnorgans, and a box containing a supply of wax cylinders for thernphonograph.rnrnFurther down the room, on the same side, is a fireplace, with arncomfortable leather-covered easy-chair at the side of the hearthrnnearest the door, and a coal-scuttle. There is a clock on thernmantelpiece. Between the fireplace and the phonograph table is a standrnfor newspapers.rnrnOn the other side of the central door, to the left of the visitor, is arncabinet of shallow drawers. On it is a telephone and the telephonerndirectory. The corner beyond, and most of the side wall, is occupied byrna grand piano, with the keyboard at the end furthest from the door, andrna bench for the player extending the full length of the keyboard. Onrnthe piano is a dessert dish heaped with fruit and sweets, mostlyrnchocolates.rnrnThe middle of the room is clear. Besides the easy chair, the pianornbench, and two chairs at the phonograph table, there is one strayrnchair. It stands near the fireplace. On the walls, engravings; mostlyrnPiranesis and mezzotint portraits. No paintings.rnrnPickering is seated at the table, putting down some cards and arntuning-fork which he has been using. Higgins is standing up near him,rnclosing two or three file drawers which are hanging out. He appears inrnthe morning light as a robust, vital, appetizing sort of man of fortyrnor thereabouts, dressed in a professional-looking black frock-coat withrna white linen collar and black silk tie. He is of the energetic,rnscientific type, heartily, even violently interested in everything thatrncan be studied as a scientific subject, and careless about himself andrnother people, including their feelings. He is, in fact, but for hisrnyears and size, rather like a very impetuous baby “taking notice”rneagerly and loudly, and requiring almost as much watching to keep himrnout of unintended mischief. His manner varies from genial bullying whenrnhe is in a good humor to stormy petulance when anything goes wrong; butrnhe is so entirely frank and void of malice that he remains likeablerneven in his least reasonable moments.rnrnHIGGINS [as he shuts the last drawer] Well, I think that’s the wholernshow.rnrnPICKERING. It’s really amazing. I haven’t taken half of it in, you know.rnrnHIGGINS. Would you like to go over any of it again?rnrnPICKERING [rising and coming to the fireplace, where he plants himselfrnwith his back to the fire] No, thank you; not now. I’m quite done uprnfor this morning.rnrnHIGGINS [following him, and standing beside him on his left] Tired ofrnlistening to sounds?rnrnPICKERING. Yes. It’s a fearful strain. I rather fancied myself becausernI can pronounce twenty-four distinct vowel sounds; but your hundred andrnthirty beat me. I can’t hear a bit of difference between most of them.rnrnHIGGINS [chuckling, and going over to the piano to eat sweets] Oh, thatrncomes with practice. You hear no difference at first; but you keep onrnlistening, and presently you find they’re all as different as A from B.[Mrs. Pearce looks in: she is Higgins’s housekeeper] What’s the matter?rnrnMRS. PEARCE [hesitating, evidently perplexed] A young woman wants tornsee you, sir.rnrnHIGGINS. A young woman! What does she want?rnrnMRS. PEARCE. Well, sir, she says you’ll be glad to see her when yournknow what she’s come about. She’s quite a common girl, sir. Very commonrnindeed. I should have sent her away, only I thought perhaps you wantedrnher to talk into your machines. I hope I’ve not done wrong; but reallyrnyou see such queer people sometimes—you’ll excuse me, I’m sure, sir—rnrnHIGGINS. Oh, that’s all right, Mrs. Pearce. Has she an interestingrnaccent?rnrnMRS. PEARCE. Oh, something dreadful, sir, really. I don’t know how yourncan take an interest in it.rnrnHIGGINS [to Pickering] Let’s have her up. Show her up, Mrs. Pearce [hernrushes across to his working table and picks out a cylinder to use onrnthe phonograph].rnrnMRS. PEARCE [only half resigned to it] Very well, sir. It’s for you tornsay. [She goes downstairs].rnrnHIGGINS. This is rather a bit of luck. I’ll show you how I makernrecords. We’ll set her talking; and I’ll take it down first in Bell’srnvisible Speech; then in broad Romic; and then we’ll get her on thernphonograph so that you can turn her on as often as you like with thernwritten transcript before you.rnrnMRS. PEARCE [returning] This is the young woman, sir.rnrnThe flower girl enters in state. She has a hat with three ostrichrnfeathers, orange, sky-blue, and red. She has a nearly clean apron, andrnthe shoddy coat has been tidied a little. The pathos of this deplorablernfigure, with its innocent vanity and consequential air, touchesrnPickering, who has already straightened himself in the presence of Mrs.rnPearce. But as to Higgins, the only distinction he makes between menrnand women is that when he is neither bullying nor exclaiming to thernheavens against some featherweight cross, he coaxes women as a childrncoaxes its nurse when it wants to get anything out of her.rnrnHIGGINS [brusquely, recognizing her with unconcealed disappointment,rnand at once, baby-like, making an intolerable grievance of it] Why,rnthis is the girl I jotted down last night. She’s no use: I’ve got allrnthe records I want of the Lisson Grove lingo; and I’m not going tornwaste another cylinder on it. [To the girl] Be off with you: I don’trnwant you.rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. Don’t you be so saucy. You ain’t heard what I come forrnyet. [To Mrs. Pearce, who is waiting at the door for furtherrninstruction] Did you tell him I come in a taxi?rnrnMRS. PEARCE. Nonsense, girl! what do you think a gentleman like Mr.rnHiggins cares what you came in?rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. Oh, we are proud! He ain’t above giving lessons, notrnhim: I heard him say so. Well, I ain’t come here to ask for anyrncompliment; and if my money’s not good enough I can go elsewhere.rnrnHIGGINS. Good enough for what?rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. Good enough for ye—oo. Now you know, don’t you? I’mrncome to have lessons, I am. And to pay for em too: make no mistake.rnrnHIGGINS [stupent] WELL!!! [Recovering his breath with a gasp] What dornyou expect me to say to you?rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. Well, if you was a gentleman, you might ask me to sitrndown, I think. Don’t I tell you I’m bringing you business?rnrnHIGGINS. Pickering: shall we ask this baggage to sit down or shall wernthrow her out of the window?rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [running away in terror to the piano, where she turnsrnat bay] Ah—ah—ah—ow—ow—ow—oo! [Wounded and whimpering] I won’t berncalled a baggage when I’ve offered to pay like any lady.rnrnMotionless, the two men stare at her from the other side of the room,rnamazed.rnrnPICKERING [gently] What is it you want, my girl?rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. I want to be a lady in a flower shop stead of sellingrnat the corner of Tottenham Court Road. But they won’t take me unless Irncan talk more genteel. He said he could teach me. Well, here I am readyrnto pay him—not asking any favor—and he treats me as if I was dirt.rnrnMRS. PEARCE. How can you be such a foolish ignorant girl as to thinkrnyou could afford to pay Mr. Higgins?rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. Why shouldn’t I? I know what lessons cost as well asrnyou do; and I’m ready to pay.rnrnHIGGINS. How much?rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL [coming back to him, triumphant] Now you’re talking! Irnthought you’d come off it when you saw a chance of getting back a bitrnof what you chucked at me last night. [Confidentially] You’d had a droprnin, hadn’t you?rnrnHIGGINS [peremptorily] Sit down.rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. Oh, if you’re going to make a compliment of it—rnrnHIGGINS [thundering at her] Sit down.rnrnMRS. PEARCE [severely] Sit down, girl. Do as you’re told. [She placesrnthe stray chair near the hearthrug between Higgins and Pickering, andrnstands behind it waiting for the girl to sit down].rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. Ah—ah—ah—ow—ow—oo! [She stands, half rebellious,rnhalf bewildered].rnrnPICKERING [very courteous] Won’t you sit down?rnrnLIZA [coyly] Don’t mind if I do. [She sits down. Pickering returns tornthe hearthrug].rnrnHIGGINS. What’s your name?rnrnTHE FLOWER GIRL. Liza Doolittle.rnrnHIGGINS [declaiming gravely] Eliza, Elizabeth, Betsy and Bess, They went to the woods to get a bird’s nes’:rnrnPICKERING. They found a nest with four eggs in it:rnrnHIGGINS. They took one apiece, and left three in it.rnrnThey laugh heartily at their own wit.rnrnLIZA. Oh, don’t be silly.rnrnMRS. PEARCE. You mustn’t speak to the gentleman like that.rnrnLIZA. Well, why won’t he speak sensible to me?rnrnHIGGINS. Come back to business. How much do you propose to pay me forrnthe lessons?rnrnLIZA. Oh, I know what’s right. A lady friend of mine gets Frenchrnlessons for eighteenpence an hour from a real French gentleman. Well,rnyou wouldn’t have the face to ask me the same for teaching me my ownrnlanguage as you would for French; so I won’t give more than a shilling.rnTake it or leave it.rnrnHIGGINS [walking up and down the room, rattling his keys and his cashrnin his pockets] You know, Pickering, if you consider a shilling, not asrna simple shilling, but as a percentage of this girl’s income, it worksrnout as fully equivalent to sixty or seventy guineas from a millionaire.rnrnPICKERING. How so?rnrnHIGGINS. Figure it out. A millionaire has about 150 pounds a day. Shernearns about half-a-crown.rnrnLIZA [haughtily] Who told you I only—rnrnHIGGINS [continuing] She offers me two-fifths of her day’s income for arnlesson. Two-fifths of a millionaire’s income for a day would bernsomewhere about 60 pounds. It’s handsome. By George, it’s enormous!rnit’s the biggest offer I ever had.rnrnLIZA [rising, terrified] Sixty pounds! What are you talking about? Irnnever offered you sixty pounds. Where would I get—rnrnHIGGINS. Hold your tongue.rnrnLIZA [weeping] But I ain’t got sixty pounds. Oh—rnrnMRS. PEARCE. Don’t cry, you silly girl. Sit down. Nobody is going torntouch your money.rnrnHIGGINS. Somebody is going to touch you, with a broomstick, if yourndon’t stop snivelling. Sit down.rnrnLIZA [obeying slowly] Ah—ah—ah—ow—oo—o! One would think you was myrnfather.rnrnHIGGINS. If I decide to teach you, I’ll be worse than two fathers tornyou. Here [he offers her his silk handkerchief]!rnrnLIZA. What’s this for?rnrnHIGGINS. To wipe your eyes. To wipe any part of your face that feelsrnmoist. Remember: that’s your handkerchief; and that’s your sleeve.rnDon’t mistake the one for the other if you wish to become a lady in arnshop.rnrnLiza, utterly bewildered, stares helplessly at him.rnrnMRS. PEARCE. It’s no use talking to her like that, Mr. Higgins: sherndoesn’t understand you. Besides, you’re quite wrong: she doesn’t do itrnthat way at all [she takes the handkerchief].rnrnLIZA [snatching it] Here! You give me that handkerchief. He give it tornme, not to you.rnrnPICKERING [laughing] He did. I think it must be regarded as herrnproperty, Mrs. Pearce.rnrnMRS. PEARCE [resigning herself] Serve you right, Mr. Higgins.rnrnPICKERING. Higgins: I’m interested. What about the ambassador’s gardenrnparty? I’ll say you’re the greatest teacher alive if you make thatrngood. I’ll bet you all the expenses of the experiment you can’t do it.rnAnd I’ll pay for the lessons.rnrnLIZA. Oh, you are real good. Thank you, Captain.rnrnHIGGINS [tempted, looking at her] It’s almost irresistible. She’s sorndeliciously low—so horribly dirty—rnrnLIZA [protesting extremely] Ah—ah—ah—ah—ow—ow—oooo!!! I ain’trndirty: I washed my face and hands afore I come, I did.rnrnPICKERING. You’re certainly not going to turn her head with flattery,rnHiggins.rnrnMRS. PEARCE [uneasy] Oh, don’t say that, sir: there’s more ways thanrnone of turning a girl’s head; and nobody can do it better than Mr.rnHiggins, though he may not always mean it. I do hope, sir, you won’trnencourage him to do anything foolish.rnrnHIGGINS [becoming excited as the idea grows on him] What is life but arnseries of inspired follies? The difficulty is to find them to do. Neverrnlose a chance: it doesn’t come every day. I shall make a duchess ofrnthis draggletailed guttersnipe.rnrnLIZA [strongly deprecating this view of her] Ah—ah—ah—ow—ow—oo!rnrnHIGGINS [carried away] Yes: in six months—in three if she has a goodrnear and a quick tongue—I’ll take her anywhere and pass her off asrnanything. We’ll start today: now! this moment! Take her away and cleanrnher, Mrs. Pearce. Monkey Brand, if it won’t come off any other way. Isrnthere a good fire in the kitchen?rnrnMRS. PEARCE [protesting]. Yes; but—rnrnHIGGINS [storming on] Take all her clothes off and burn them. Ring uprnWhiteley or somebody for new ones. Wrap her up in brown paper till theyrncome.rnrnLIZA. You’re no gentleman, you’re not, to talk of such things. I’m arngood girl, I am; and I know what the like of you are, I do.rnrnHIGGINS. We want none of your Lisson Grove prudery here, young woman.rnYou’ve got to learn to behave like a duchess. Take her away, Mrs.rnPearce. If she gives you any trouble wallop her.rnrnLIZA [springing up and running between Pickering and Mrs. Pearce forrnprotection] No! I’ll call the police, I will.rnrnMRS. PEARCE. But I’ve no place to put her.rnrnHIGGINS. Put her in the dustbin.rnrnLIZA. Ah—ah—ah—ow—ow—oo!rnrnPICKERING. Oh come, Higgins! be reasonable.rnrnMRS. PEARCE [resolutely] You must be reasonable, Mr. Higgins: reallyrnyou must. You can’t walk over everybody like this.rnrnHiggins, thus scolded, subsides. The hurricane is succeeded by a zephyrrnof amiable surprise.rnrnHIGGINS [with professional exquisiteness of modulation] I walk overrneverybody! My dear Mrs. Pearce, my dear Pickering, I never had thernslightest intention of walking over anyone. All I propose is that wernshould be kind to this poor girl. We must help her to prepare and fitrnherself for her new station in life. If I did not express myselfrnclearly it was because I did not wish to hurt her delicacy, or yours.rnrnLiza, reassured, steals back to her chair.rnrnMRS. PEARCE [to Pickering] Well, did you ever hear anything like that,rnsir?rnrnPICKERING [laughing heartily] Never, Mrs. Pearce: never.rnrnHIGGINS [patiently] What’s the matter?rnrnMRS. PEARCE. Well, the matter is, sir, that you can’t take a girl uprnlike that as if you were picking up a pebble on the beach.rnrnHIGGINS. Why not?rnrnMRS. PEARCE. Why not! But you don’t know anything about her. What aboutrnher parents? She may be married.rnrnLIZA. Garn!rnrnHIGGINS. There! As the girl very properly says, Garn! Married indeed!rnDon’t you know that a woman of that class looks a worn out drudge ofrnfifty a year after she’s married.rnrnLIZA. Who’d marry me?rnrnHIGGINS [suddenly resorting to the most thrillingly beautiful low tonesrnin his best elocutionary style] By George, Eliza, the streets will bernstrewn with the bodies of men shooting themselves for your sake beforernI’ve done with you.rnrnMRS. PEARCE. Nonsense, sir. You mustn’t talk like that to her.rnrnLIZA [rising and squaring herself determinedly] I’m going away. He’srnoff his chump, he is. I don’t want no balmies teaching me.rnrnHIGGINS [wounded in his tenderest point by her insensibility to hisrnelocution] Oh, indeed! I’m mad, am I? Very well, Mrs. Pearce: yournneedn’t order the new clothes for her. Throw her out.rnrnLIZA [whimpering] Nah—ow. You got no right to touch me.rnrnMRS. PEARCE. You see now what comes of being saucy. [Indicating therndoor] This way, please.rnrnLIZA [almost in tears] I didn’t want no clothes. I wouldn’t have takenrnthem [she throws away the handkerchief]. I can buy my own clothes.rnrnHIGGINS [deftly retrieving the handkerchief and intercepting her on herrnreluctant way to the door] You’re an ungrateful wicked girl. This is myrnreturn for offering to take you out of the gutter and dress yournbeautifully and make a lady of you.rnrnMRS. PEARCE. Stop, Mr. Higgins. I won’t allow it. It’s you that arernwicked. Go home to your parents, girl; and tell them to take betterrncare of you.rnrnLIZA. I ain’t got no parents. They told me I was big enough to earn myrnown living and turned me out.rnrnMRS. PEARCE. Where’s your mother?rnrnLIZA. I ain’t got no mother. Her that turned me out was my sixthrnstepmother. But I done without them. And I’m a good girl, I am.rnrnHIGGINS. Very well, then, what on earth is all this fuss about? Therngirl doesn’t belong to anybody—is no use to anybody but me. [He goesrnto Mrs. Pearce and begins coaxing]. You can adopt her, Mrs. Pearce: I’mrnsure a daughter would be a great amusement to you. Now don’t make anyrnmore fuss. Take her downstairs; and—rnrnMRS. PEARCE. But what’s to become of her? Is she to be paid anything?rnDo be sensible, sir.rnrnHIGGINS. Oh, pay her whatever is necessary: put it down in thernhousekeeping book. [Impatiently] What on earth will she want withrnmoney? She’ll have her food and her clothes. She’ll only drink if yourngive her money.rnrnLIZA [turning on him] Oh you are a brute. It’s a lie: nobody ever sawrnthe sign of liquor on me. [She goes back to her chair and plantsrnherself there defiantly].rnrnPICKERING [in good-humored remonstrance] Does it occur to you, Higgins,rnthat the girl has some feelings?rnrnHIGGINS [looking critically at her] Oh no, I don’t think so. Not anyrnfeelings that we need bother about. [Cheerily] Have you, Eliza?rnrnLIZA. I got my feelings same as anyone else.rnrnHIGGINS [to Pickering, reflectively] You see the difficulty?rnrnPICKERING. Eh? What difficulty?rnrnHIGGINS. To get her to talk grammar. The mere pronunciation is easyrnenough.rnrnLIZA. I don’t want to talk grammar. I want to talk like a lady.rnrnMRS. PEARCE. Will you please keep to the point, Mr. Higgins. I want tornknow on what terms the girl is to be here. Is she to have any wages?rnAnd what is to become of her when you’ve finished your teaching? Yournmust look ahead a little.rnrnHIGGINS [impatiently] What’s to become of her if I leave her in therngutter? Tell me that, Mrs. Pearce.rnrnMRS. PEARCE. That’s her own business, not yours, Mr. Higgins.rnrnHIGGINS. Well, when I’ve done with her, we can throw her back into therngutter; and then it will be her own business again; so that’s all right.rnrnLIZA. Oh, you’ve no feeling heart in you: you don’t care for nothingrnbut yourself [she rises and takes the floor resolutely]. Here! I’ve hadrnenough of this. I’m going [making for the door]. You ought to bernashamed of yourself, you ought.rnrnHIGGINS [snatching a chocolate cream from the piano, his eyes suddenlyrnbeginning to twinkle with mischief] Have some chocolates, Eliza.rnrnLIZA [halting, tempted] How do I know what might be in them? I’ve heardrnof girls being drugged by the like of you.rnrnHiggins whips out his penknife; cuts a chocolate in two; puts one halfrninto his mouth and bolts it; and offers her the other half.rnrnHIGGINS. Pledge of good faith, Eliza. I eat one half you eat the other.rnrn[Liza opens her mouth to retort: he pops the half chocolate into it].rnYou shall have boxes of them, barrels of them, every day. You shallrnlive on them. Eh?rnrnLIZA [who has disposed of the chocolate after being nearly choked byrnit] I wouldn’t have ate it, only I’m too ladylike to take it out of myrnmouth.rnrnHIGGINS. Listen, Eliza. I think you said you came in a taxi.rnrnLIZA. Well, what if I did? I’ve as good a right to take a taxi asrnanyone else.rnrnHIGGINS. You have, Eliza; and in future you shall have as many taxis asrnyou want. You shall go up and down and round the town in a taxi everyrnday. Think of that, Eliza.rnrnMRS. PEARCE. Mr. Higgins: you’re tempting the girl. It’s not right. Shernshould think of the future.rnrnHIGGINS. At her age! Nonsense! Time enough to think of the future whenrnyou haven’t any future to think of. No, Eliza: do as this lady does:rnthink of other people’s futures; but never think of your own. Think ofrnchocolates, and taxis, and gold, and diamonds.rnrnLIZA. No: I don’t want no gold and no diamonds. I’m a good girl, I am.[She sits down again, with an attempt at dignity].rnrnHIGGINS. You shall remain so, Eliza, under the care of Mrs. Pearce. Andrnyou shall marry an officer in the Guards, with a beautiful moustache:rnthe son of a marquis, who will disinherit him for marrying you, butrnwill relent when he sees your beauty and goodness—rnrnPICKERING. Excuse me, Higgins; but I really must interfere. Mrs. Pearcernis quite right. If this girl is to put herself in your hands for sixrnmonths for an experiment in teaching, she must understand thoroughlyrnwhat she’s doing.rnrnHIGGINS. How can she? She’s incapable of understanding anything.rnBesides, do any of us understand what we are doing? If we did, would wernever do it?rnrnPICKERING. Very clever, Higgins; but not sound sense. [To Eliza] MissrnDoolittle—rnrnLIZA [overwhelmed] Ah—ah—ow—oo!rnrnHIGGINS. There! That’s all you get out of Eliza. Ah—ah—ow—oo! No usernexplaining. As a military man you ought to know that. Give her herrnorders: that’s what she wants. Eliza: you are to live here for the nextrnsix months, learning how to speak beautifully, like a lady in arnflorist’s shop. If you’re good and do whatever you’re told, you shallrnsleep in a proper bedroom, and have lots to eat, and money to buyrnchocolates and take rides in taxis. If you’re naughty and idle you willrnsleep in the back kitchen among the black beetles, and be walloped byrnMrs. Pearce with a broomstick. At the end of six months you shall go tornBuckingham Palace in a carriage, beautifully dressed. If the King findsrnout you’re not a lady, you will be taken by the police to the Tower ofrnLondon, where your head will be cut off as a warning to otherrnpresumptuous flower girls. If you are not found out, you shall have arnpresent of seven-and-sixpence to start life with as a lady in a shop.rnIf you refuse this offer you will be a most ungrateful and wicked girl;rnand the angels will weep for you. [To Pickering] Now are you satisfied,rnPickering? [To Mrs. Pearce] Can I put it more plainly and fairly, Mrs.rnPearce?rnrnMRS. PEARCE [patiently] I think you’d better let me speak to the girlrnproperly in private. I don’t know that I can take charge of her orrnconsent to the arrangement at all. Of course I know you don’t mean herrnany harm; but when you get what you call interested in people’srnaccents, you never think or care what may happen to them or you. Comernwith me, Eliza.rnrnHIGGINS. That’s all right. Thank you, Mrs. Pearce. Bundle her off tornthe bath-room.rnrnLIZA [rising reluctantly and suspiciously] You’re a great bully, yournare. I won’t stay here if I don’t like. I won’t let nobody wallop me. Irnnever asked to go to Bucknam Palace, I didn’t. I was never in troublernwith the police, not me. I’m a good girl—rnrnMRS. PEARCE. Don’t answer back, girl. You don’t understand therngentleman. Come with me. [She leads the way to the door, and holds itrnopen for Eliza].rnrnLIZA [as she goes out] Well, what I say is right. I won’t go near thernking, not if I’m going to have my head cut off. If I’d known what I wasrnletting myself in for, I wouldn’t have come here. I always been a goodrngirl; and I never offered to say a word to him; and I don’t owe himrnnothing; and I don’t care; and I won’t be put upon; and I have myrnfeelings the same as anyone else—rnrnMrs. Pearce shuts the door; and Eliza’s plaints are no longer audible.rnPickering comes from the hearth to the chair and sits astride it withrnhis arms on the back.rnrnPICKERING. Excuse the straight question, Higgins. Are you a man of goodrncharacter where women are concerned?rnrnHIGGINS [moodily] Have you ever met a man of good character where womenrnare concerned?rnrnPICKERING. Yes: very frequently.rnrnHIGGINS [dogmatically, lifting himself on his hands to the level of thernpiano, and sitting on it with a bounce] Well, I haven’t. I find thatrnthe moment I let a woman make friends with me, she becomes jealous,rnexacting, suspicious, and a damned nuisance. I find that the moment Irnlet myself make friends with a woman, I become selfish and tyrannical.rnWomen upset everything. When you let them into your life, you find thatrnthe woman is driving at one thing and you’re driving at another.rnrnPICKERING. At what, for example?rnrnHIGGINS [coming off the piano restlessly] Oh, Lord knows! I suppose thernwoman wants to live her own life; and the man wants to live his; andrneach tries to drag the other on to the wrong track. One wants to gornnorth and the other south; and the result is that both have to go east,rnthough they both hate the east wind. [He sits down on the bench at thernkeyboard]. So here I am, a confirmed old bachelor, and likely to remainrnso.rnrnPICKERING [rising and standing over him gravely] Come, Higgins! Yournknow what I mean. If I’m to be in this business I shall feelrnresponsible for that girl. I hope it’s understood that no advantage isrnto be taken of her position.rnrnHIGGINS. What! That thing! Sacred, I assure you. [Rising to explain]rnYou see, she’ll be a pupil; and teaching would be impossible unlessrnpupils were sacred. I’ve taught scores of American millionairesses howrnto speak English: the best looking women in the world. I’m seasoned.rnThey might as well be blocks of wood. I might as well be a block ofrnwood. It’s—rnrnMrs. Pearce opens the door. She has Eliza’s hat in her hand. Pickeringrnretires to the easy-chair at the hearth and sits down.rnrnHIGGINS [eagerly] Well, Mrs. Pearce: is it all right?rnrnMRS. PEARCE [at the door] I just wish to trouble you with a word, if Irnmay, Mr. Higgins.rnrnHIGGINS. Yes, certainly. Come in. [She comes forward]. Don’t burn that,rnMrs. Pearce. I’ll keep it as a curiosity. [He takes the hat].rnrnMRS. PEARCE. Handle it carefully, sir, please. I had to promise her notrnto burn it; but I had better put it in the oven for a while.rnrnHIGGINS [putting it down hastily on the piano] Oh! thank you. Well,rnwhat have you to say to me?rnrnPICKERING. Am I in the way?rnrnMRS. PEARCE. Not at all, sir. Mr. Higgins: will you please be veryrnparticular what you say before the girl?rnrnHIGGINS [sternly] Of course. I’m always particular about what I say.rnWhy do you say this to me?rnrnMRS. PEARCE [unmoved] No, sir: you’re not at all particular when you’vernmislaid anything or when you get a little impatient. Now it doesn’trnmatter before me: I’m used to it. But you really must not swear beforernthe girl.rnrnHIGGINS [indignantly] I swear! [Most emphatically] I never swear. Irndetest the habit. What the devil do you mean?rnrnMRS. PEARCE [stolidly] That’s what I mean, sir. You swear a great dealrntoo much. I don’t mind your damning and blasting, and what the devilrnand where the devil and who the devil—rnrnHIGGINS. Really! Mrs. Pearce: this language from your lips!rnrnMRS. PEARCE [not to be put off]—but there is a certain word I must askrnyou not to use. The girl has just used it herself because the bath wasrntoo hot. It begins with the same letter as bath. She knows no better:rnshe learnt it at her mother’s knee. But she must not hear it from yourrnlips.rnrnHIGGINS [loftily] I cannot charge myself with having ever uttered it,rnMrs. Pearce. [She looks at him steadfastly. He adds, hiding an uneasyrnconscience with a judicial air] Except perhaps in a moment of extremernand justifiable excitement.rnrnMRS. PEARCE. Only this morning, sir, you applied it to your boots, tornthe butter, and to the brown bread.rnrnHIGGINS. Oh, that! Mere alliteration, Mrs. Pearce, natural to a poet.rnrnMRS. PEARCE. Well, sir, whatever you choose to call it, I beg you notrnto let the girl hear you repeat it.rnrnHIGGINS. Oh, very well, very well. Is that all?rnrnMRS. PEARCE. No, sir. We shall have to be very particular with thisrngirl as to personal cleanliness.rnrnHIGGINS. Certainly. Quite right. Most important.rnrnMRS. PEARCE. I mean not to be slovenly about her dress or untidy inrnleaving things about.rnrnHIGGINS [going to her solemnly] Just so. I intended to call yourrnattention to that [He passes on to Pickering, who is enjoying thernconversation immensely]. It is these little things that matter,rnPickering. Take care of the pence and the pounds will take care ofrnthemselves is as true of personal habits as of money. [He comes tornanchor on the hearthrug, with the air of a man in an unassailablernposition].rnrnMRS. PEARCE. Yes, sir. Then might I ask you not to come down tornbreakfast in your dressing-gown, or at any rate not to use it as arnnapkin to the extent you do, sir. And if you would be so good as not torneat everything off the same plate, and to remember not to put thernporridge saucepan out of your hand on the clean tablecloth, it would berna better example to the girl. You know you nearly choked yourself withrna fishbone in the jam only last week.rnrnHIGGINS [routed from the hearthrug and drifting back to the piano] Irnmay do these things sometimes in absence of mind; but surely I don’t dornthem habitually. [Angrily] By the way: my dressing-gown smells mostrndamnably of benzine.rnrnMRS. PEARCE. No doubt it does, Mr. Higgins. But if you will wipe yourrnfingers—rnrnHIGGINS [yelling] Oh very well, very well: I’ll wipe them in my hair inrnfuture.rnrnMRS. PEARCE. I hope you’re not offended, Mr. Higgins.rnrnHIGGINS [shocked at finding himself thought capable of an unamiablernsentiment] Not at all, not at all. You’re quite right, Mrs. Pearce: Irnshall be particularly careful before the girl. Is that all?rnrnMRS. PEARCE. No, sir. Might she use some of those Japanese dresses yournbrought from abroad? I really can’t put her back into her old things.rnrnHIGGINS. Certainly. Anything you like. Is that all?rnrnMRS. PEARCE. Thank you, sir. That’s all. [She goes out].rnrnHIGGINS. You know, Pickering, that woman has the most extraordinaryrnideas about me. Here I am, a shy, diffident sort of man. I’ve neverrnbeen able to feel really grown-up and tremendous, like other chaps. Andrnyet she’s firmly persuaded that I’m an arbitrary overbearing bossingrnkind of person. I can’t account for it.rnrnMrs. Pearce returns.rnrnMRS. PEARCE. If you please, sir, the trouble’s beginning already.rnThere’s a dustman downstairs, Alfred Doolittle, wants to see you. Hernsays you have his daughter here.rnrnPICKERING [rising] Phew! I say! [He retreats to the hearthrug].rnrnHIGGINS [promptly] Send the blackguard up.rnrnMRS. PEARCE. Oh, very well, sir. [She goes out].rnrnPICKERING. He may not be a blackguard, Higgins.rnrnHIGGINS. Nonsense. Of course he’s a blackguard.rnrnPICKERING. Whether he is or not, I’m afraid we shall have some troublernwith him.rnrnHIGGINS [confidently] Oh no: I think not. If there’s any trouble hernshall have it with me, not I with him. And we are sure to get somethingrninteresting out of him.rnrnPICKERING. About the girl?rnrnHIGGINS. No. I mean his dialect.rnrnPICKERING. Oh!rnrnMRS. PEARCE [at the door] Doolittle, sir. [She admits Doolittle andrnretires].rnrnAlfred Doolittle is an elderly but vigorous dustman, clad in therncostume of his profession, including a hat with a back brim coveringrnhis neck and shoulders. He has well marked and rather interestingrnfeatures, and seems equally free from fear and conscience. He has arnremarkably expressive voice, the result of a habit of giving vent tornhis feelings without reserve. His present pose is that of wounded honorrnand stern resolution.rnrnDOOLITTLE [at the door, uncertain which of the two gentlemen is hisrnman] Professor Higgins?rnrnHIGGINS. Here. Good morning. Sit down.rnrnDOOLITTLE. Morning, Governor. [He sits down magisterially] I come aboutrna very serious matter, Governor.rnrnHIGGINS [to Pickering] Brought up in Hounslow. Mother Welsh, I shouldrnthink. [Doolittle opens his mouth, amazed. Higgins continues] What dornyou want, Doolittle?rnrnDOOLITTLE [menacingly] I want my daughter: that’s what I want. See?rnrnHIGGINS. Of course you do. You’re her father, aren’t you? You don’trnsuppose anyone else wants her, do you? I’m glad to see you have somernspark of family feeling left. She’s upstairs. Take her away at once.rnrnDOOLITTLE [rising, fearfully taken aback] What!rnrnHIGGINS. Take her away. Do you suppose I’m going to keep your daughterrnfor you?rnrnDOOLITTLE [remonstrating] Now, now, look here, Governor. Is thisrnreasonable? Is it fair to take advantage of a man like this? The girlrnbelongs to me. You got her. Where do I come in? [He sits down again].rnrnHIGGINS. Your daughter had the audacity to come to my house and ask mernto teach her how to speak properly so that she could get a place in arnflower-shop. This gentleman and my housekeeper have been here all therntime. [Bullying him] How dare you come here and attempt to blackmailrnme? You sent her here on purpose.rnrnDOOLITTLE [protesting] No, Governor.rnrnHIGGINS. You must have. How else could you possibly know that she isrnhere?rnrnDOOLITTLE. Don’t take a man up like that, Governor.rnrnHIGGINS. The police shall take you up. This is a plant—a plot tornextort money by threats. I shall telephone for the police [he goesrnresolutely to the telephone and opens the directory].rnrnDOOLITTLE. Have I asked you for a brass farthing? I leave it to therngentleman here: have I said a word about money?rnrnHIGGINS [throwing the book aside and marching down on Doolittle with arnposer] What else did you come for?rnrnDOOLITTLE [sweetly] Well, what would a man come for? Be human, governor.rnrnHIGGINS [disarmed] Alfred: did you put her up to it?rnrnDOOLITTLE. So help me, Governor, I never did. I take my Bible oath Irnain’t seen the girl these two months past.rnrnHIGGINS. Then how did you know she was here?rnrnDOOLITTLE [“most musical, most melancholy”] I’ll tell you, Governor, ifrnyou’ll only let me get a word in. I’m willing to tell you. I’m wantingrnto tell you. I’m waiting to tell you.rnrnHIGGINS. Pickering: this chap has a certain natural gift of rhetoric.rnObserve the rhythm of his native woodnotes wild. “I’m willing to tellrnyou: I’m wanting to tell you: I’m waiting to tell you.” Sentimentalrnrhetoric! That’s the Welsh strain in him. It also accounts for hisrnmendacity and dishonesty.rnrnPICKERING. Oh, PLEASE, Higgins: I’m west country myself. [To Doolittle]rnHow did you know the girl was here if you didn’t send her?rnrnDOOLITTLE. It was like this, Governor. The girl took a boy in the taxirnto give him a jaunt. Son of her landlady, he is. He hung about on thernchance of her giving him another ride home. Well, she sent him back forrnher luggage when she heard you was willing for her to stop here. I metrnthe boy at the corner of Long Acre and Endell Street.rnrnHIGGINS. Public house. Yes?rnrnDOOLITTLE. The poor man’s club, Governor: why shouldn’t I?rnrnPICKERING. Do let him tell his story, Higgins.rnrnDOOLITTLE. He told me what was up. And I ask you, what was my feelingsrnand my duty as a father? I says to the boy, “You bring me the luggage,”rnI says—rnrnPICKERING. Why didn’t you go for it yourself?rnrnDOOLITTLE. Landlady wouldn’t have trusted me with it, Governor. She’srnthat kind of woman: you know. I had to give the boy a penny afore herntrusted me with it, the little swine. I brought it to her just tornoblige you like, and make myself agreeable. That’s all.rnrnHIGGINS. How much luggage?rnrnDOOLITTLE. Musical instrument, Governor. A few pictures, a trifle ofrnjewelry, and a bird-cage. She said she didn’t want no clothes. What wasrnI to think from that, Governor? I ask you as a parent what was I tornthink?rnrnHIGGINS. So you came to rescue her from worse than death, eh?rnrnDOOLITTLE [appreciatively: relieved at being understood] Just so,rnGovernor. That’s right.rnrnPICKERING. But why did you bring her luggage if you intended to takernher away?rnrnDOOLITTLE. Have I said a word about taking her away? Have I now?rnrnHIGGINS [determinedly] You’re going to take her away, double quick. [Herncrosses to the hearth and rings the bell].rnrnDOOLITTLE [rising] No, Governor. Don’t say that. I’m not the man tornstand in my girl’s light. Here’s a career opening for her, as you mightrnsay; and—rnrnMrs. Pearce opens the door and awaits orders.rnrnHIGGINS. Mrs. Pearce: this is Eliza’s father. He has come to take herrnaway. Give her to him. [He goes back to the piano, with an air ofrnwashing his hands of the whole affair].rnrnDOOLITTLE. No. This is a misunderstanding. Listen here—rnrnMRS. PEARCE. He can’t take her away, Mr. Higgins: how can he? You toldrnme to burn her clothes.rnrnDOOLITTLE. That’s right. I can’t carry the girl through the streetsrnlike a blooming monkey, can I? I put it to you.rnrnHIGGINS. You have put it to me that you want your daughter. Take yourrndaughter. If she has no clothes go out and buy her some.rnrnDOOLITTLE [desperate] Where’s the clothes she come in? Did I burn themrnor did your missus here?rnrnMRS. PEARCE. I am the housekeeper, if you please. I have sent for somernclothes for your girl. When they come you can take her away. You canrnwait in the kitchen. This way, please.rnrnDoolittle, much troubled, accompanies her to the door; then hesitates;rnfinally turns confidentially to Higgins.rnrnDOOLITTLE. Listen here, Governor. You and me is men of the world, ain’trnwe?rnrnHIGGINS. Oh! Men of the world, are we? You’d better go, Mrs. Pearce.rnrnMRS. PEARCE. I think so, indeed, sir. [She goes, with dignity].rnrnPICKERING. The floor is yours, Mr. Doolittle.rnrnDOOLITTLE [to Pickering] I thank you, Governor. [To Higgins, who takesrnrefuge on the piano bench, a little overwhelmed by the proximity of hisrnvisitor; for Doolittle has a professional flavor of dust about him].rnWell, the truth is, I’ve taken a sort of fancy to you, Governor; and ifrnyou want the girl, I’m not so set on having her back home again butrnwhat I might be open to an arrangement. Regarded in the light of arnyoung woman, she’s a fine handsome girl. As a daughter she’s not worthrnher keep; and so I tell you straight. All I ask is my rights as arnfather; and you’re the last man alive to expect me to let her go forrnnothing; for I can see you’re one of the straight sort, Governor. Well,rnwhat’s a five pound note to you? And what’s Eliza to me? [He returns tornhis chair and sits down judicially].rnrnPICKERING. I think you ought to know, Doolittle, that Mr. Higgins’srnintentions are entirely honorable.rnrnDOOLITTLE. Course they are, Governor. If I thought they wasn’t, I’d askrnfifty.rnrnHIGGINS [revolted] Do you mean to say, you callous rascal, that yournwould sell your daughter for 50 pounds?rnrnDOOLITTLE. Not in a general way I wouldn’t; but to oblige a gentlemanrnlike you I’d do a good deal, I do assure you.rnrnPICKERING. Have you no morals, man?rnrnDOOLITTLE [unabashed] Can’t afford them, Governor. Neither could you ifrnyou was as poor as me. Not that I mean any harm, you know. But if Lizarnis going to have a bit out of this, why not me too?rnrnHIGGINS [troubled] I don’t know what to do, Pickering. There can be nornquestion that as a matter of morals it’s a positive crime to give thisrnchap a farthing. And yet I feel a sort of rough justice in his claim.rnrnDOOLITTLE. That’s it, Governor. That’s all I say. A father’s heart, asrnit were.rnrnPICKERING. Well, I know the feeling; but really it seems hardly right—rnrnDOOLITTLE. Don’t say that, Governor. Don’t look at it that way. What amrnI, Governors both? I ask you, what am I? I’m one of the undeservingrnpoor: that’s what I am. Think of what that means to a man. It meansrnthat he’s up agen middle class morality all the time. If there’srnanything going, and I put in for a bit of it, it’s always the samernstory: “You’re undeserving; so you can’t have it.” But my needs is asrngreat as the most deserving widow’s that ever got money out of sixrndifferent charities in one week for the death of the same husband. Irndon’t need less than a deserving man: I need more. I don’t eat lessrnhearty than him; and I drink a lot more. I want a bit of amusement,rncause I’m a thinking man. I want cheerfulness and a song and a bandrnwhen I feel low. Well, they charge me just the same for everything asrnthey charge the deserving. What is middle class morality? Just anrnexcuse for never giving me anything. Therefore, I ask you, as tworngentlemen, not to play that game on me. I’m playing straight with you.rnI ain’t pretending to be deserving. I’m undeserving; and I mean to gornon being undeserving. I like it; and that’s the truth. Will you takernadvantage of a man’s nature to do him out of the price of his ownrndaughter what he’s brought up and fed and clothed by the sweat of hisrnbrow until she’s growed big enough to be interesting to you tworngentlemen? Is five pounds unreasonable? I put it to you; and I leave itrnto you.rnrnHIGGINS [rising, and going over to Pickering] Pickering: if we were torntake this man in hand for three months, he could choose between a seatrnin the Cabinet and a popular pulpit in Wales.rnrnPICKERING. What do you say to that, Doolittle?rnrnDOOLITTLE. Not me, Governor, thank you kindly. I’ve heard all thernpreachers and all the prime ministers—for I’m a thinking man and gamernfor politics or religion or social reform same as all the otherrnamusements—and I tell you it’s a dog’s life anyway you look at it.rnUndeserving poverty is my line. Taking one station in society withrnanother, it’s—it’s—well, it’s the only one that has any ginger in it,rnto my taste.rnrnHIGGINS. I suppose we must give him a fiver.rnrnPICKERING. He’ll make a bad use of it, I’m afraid.rnrnDOOLITTLE. Not me, Governor, so help me I won’t. Don’t you be afraidrnthat I’ll save it and spare it and live idle on it. There won’t be arnpenny of it left by Monday: I’ll have to go to work same as if I’drnnever had it. It won’t pauperize me, you bet. Just one good spree forrnmyself and the missus, giving pleasure to ourselves and employment tornothers, and satisfaction to you to think it’s not been throwed away.rnYou couldn’t spend it better.rnrnHIGGINS [taking out his pocket book and coming between Doolittle andrnthe piano] This is irresistible. Let’s give him ten. [He offers twornnotes to the dustman].rnrnDOOLITTLE. No, Governor. She wouldn’t have the heart to spend ten; andrnperhaps I shouldn’t neither. Ten pounds is a lot of money: it makes arnman feel prudent like; and then goodbye to happiness. You give me whatrnI ask you, Governor: not a penny more, and not a penny less.rnrnPICKERING. Why don’t you marry that missus of yours? I rather draw thernline at encouraging that sort of immorality.rnrnDOOLITTLE. Tell her so, Governor: tell her so. I’m willing. It’s mernthat suffers by it. I’ve no hold on her. I got to be agreeable to her.rnI got to give her presents. I got to buy her clothes something sinful.rnI’m a slave to that woman, Governor, just because I’m not her lawfulrnhusband. And she knows it too. Catch her marrying me! Take my advice,rnGovernor: marry Eliza while she’s young and don’t know no better. Ifrnyou don’t you’ll be sorry for it after. If you do, she’ll be sorry forrnit after; but better you than her, because you’re a man, and she’s onlyrna woman and don’t know how to be happy anyhow.rnrnHIGGINS. Pickering: if we listen to this man another minute, we shallrnhave no convictions left. [To Doolittle] Five pounds I think you said.rnrnDOOLITTLE. Thank you kindly, Governor.rnrnHIGGINS. You’re sure you won’t take ten?rnrnDOOLITTLE. Not now. Another time, Governor.rnrnHIGGINS [handing him a five-pound note] Here you are.rnrnDOOLITTLE. Thank you, Governor. Good morning.rnrn[He hurries to the door, anxious to get away with his booty. When hernopens it he is confronted with a dainty and exquisitely clean youngrnJapanese lady in a simple blue cotton kimono printed cunningly withrnsmall white jasmine blossoms. Mrs. Pearce is with her. He gets out ofrnher way deferentially and apologizes]. Beg pardon, miss.rnrnTHE JAPANESE LADY. Garn! Don’t you know your own daughter?rnrn DOOLITTLE {exclaiming Bly me! it’s Eliza! HIGGINS {simul- What’s that! This! PICKERING {taneously By Jove!rnrnLIZA. Don’t I look silly?rnrnHIGGINS. Silly?rnrnMRS. PEARCE [at the door] Now, Mr. Higgins, please don’t say anythingrnto make the girl conceited about herself.rnrnHIGGINS [conscientiously] Oh! Quite right, Mrs. Pearce. [To Eliza] Yes:rndamned silly.rnrnMRS. PEARCE. Please, sir.rnrnHIGGINS [correcting himself] I mean extremely silly.rnrnLIZA. I should look all right with my hat on. [She takes up her hat;rnputs it on; and walks across the room to the fireplace with arnfashionable air].rnrnHIGGINS. A new fashion, by George! And it ought to look horrible!rnrnDOOLITTLE [with fatherly pride] Well, I never thought she’d clean up asrngood looking as that, Governor. She’s a credit to me, ain’t she?rnrnLIZA. I tell you, it’s easy to clean up here. Hot and cold water onrntap, just as much as you like, there is. Woolly towels, there is; and arntowel horse so hot, it burns your fingers. Soft brushes to scrubrnyourself, and a wooden bowl of soap smelling like primroses. Now I knowrnwhy ladies is so clean. Washing’s a treat for them. Wish they saw whatrnit is for the like of me!rnrnHIGGINS. I’m glad the bath-room met with your approval.rnrnLIZA. It didn’t: not all of it; and I don’t care who hears me say it.rnMrs. Pearce knows.rnrnHIGGINS. What was wrong, Mrs. Pearce?rnrnMRS. PEARCE [blandly] Oh, nothing, sir. It doesn’t matter.rnrnLIZA. I had a good mind to break it. I didn’t know which way to look.rnBut I hung a towel over it, I did.rnrnHIGGINS. Over what?rnrnMRS. PEARCE. Over the looking-glass, sir.rnrnHIGGINS. Doolittle: you have brought your daughter up too strictly.rnrnDOOLITTLE. Me! I never brought her up at all, except to give her a lickrnof a strap now and again. Don’t put it on me, Governor. She ain’trnaccustomed to it, you see: that’s all. But she’ll soon pick up yourrnfree-and-easy ways.rnrnLIZA. I’m a good girl, I am; and I won’t pick up no free and easy ways.rnrnHIGGINS. Eliza: if you say again that you’re a good girl, your fatherrnshall take you home.rnrnLIZA. Not him. You don’t know my father. All he come here for was torntouch you for some money to get drunk on.rnrnDOOLITTLE. Well, what else would I want money for? To put into thernplate in church, I suppose. [She puts out her tongue at him. He is sornincensed by this that Pickering presently finds it necessary to steprnbetween them]. Don’t you give me none of your lip; and don’t let mernhear you giving this gentleman any of it neither, or you’ll hear fromrnme about it. See?rnrnHIGGINS. Have you any further advice to give her before you go,rnDoolittle? Your blessing, for instance.rnrnDOOLITTLE. No, Governor: I ain’t such a mug as to put up my children tornall I know myself. Hard enough to hold them in without that. If yournwant Eliza’s mind improved, Governor, you do it yourself with a strap.rnSo long, gentlemen. [He turns to go].rnrnHIGGINS [impressively] Stop. You’ll come regularly to see yourrndaughter. It’s your duty, you know. My brother is a clergyman; and herncould help you in your talks with her.rnrnDOOLITTLE [evasively] Certainly. I’ll come, Governor. Not just thisrnweek, because I have a job at a distance. But later on you may dependrnon me. Afternoon, gentlemen. Afternoon, ma’am. [He takes off his hat tornMrs. Pearce, who disdains the salutation and goes out. He winks atrnHiggins, thinking him probably a fellow sufferer from Mrs. Pearce’srndifficult disposition, and follows her].rnrnLIZA. Don’t you believe the old liar. He’d as soon you set a bull-dogrnon him as a clergyman. You won’t see him again in a hurry.rnrnHIGGINS. I don’t want to, Eliza. Do you?rnrnLIZA. Not me. I don’t want never to see him again, I don’t. He’s arndisgrace to me, he is, collecting dust, instead of working at his trade.rnrnPICKERING. What is his trade, Eliza?rnrnLIZA. Talking money out of other people’s pockets into his own. Hisrnproper trade’s a navvy; and he works at it sometimes too—forrnexercise—and earns good money at it. Ain’t you going to call me MissrnDoolittle any more?rnrnPICKERING. I beg your pardon, Miss Doolittle. It was a slip of therntongue.rnrnLIZA. Oh, I don’t mind; only it sounded so genteel. I should just likernto take a taxi to the corner of Tottenham Court Road and get out therernand tell it to wait for me, just to put the girls in their place a bit.rnI wouldn’t speak to them, you know.rnrnPICKERING. Better wait til we get you something really fashionable.rnrnHIGGINS. Besides, you shouldn’t cut your old friends now that you havernrisen in the world. That’s what we call snobbery.rnrnLIZA. You don’t call the like of them my friends now, I should hope.rnThey’ve took it out of me often enough with their ridicule when theyrnhad the chance; and now I mean to get a bit of my own back. But if I’mrnto have fashionable clothes, I’ll wait. I should like to have some.rnMrs. Pearce says you’re going to give me some to wear in bed at nightrndifferent to what I wear in the daytime; but it do seem a waste ofrnmoney when you could get something to show. Besides, I never couldrnfancy changing into cold things on a winter night.rnrnMRS. PEARCE [coming back] Now, Eliza. The new things have come for yournto try on.rnrnLIZA. Ah—ow—oo—ooh! [She rushes out].rnrnMRS. PEARCE [following her] Oh, don’t rush about like that, girl [Shernshuts the door behind her].rnrnHIGGINS. Pickering: we have taken on a stiff job.rnrnPICKERING [with conviction] Higgins: we have.