Pygmalion | Page 7

bunch.
THE MOTHER. Do hold your tongue, Clara. [To the girl]. You can
keep the change.
THE FLOWER GIRL. Oh, thank you, lady.
THE MOTHER. Now tell me how you know that young gentleman's
name.
THE FLOWER GIRL. I didn't.
THE MOTHER. I heard you call him by it. Don't try to deceive me.
THE FLOWER GIRL [protesting] Who's trying to deceive you? I
called him Freddy or Charlie same as you might yourself if you was
talking to a stranger and wished to be pleasant. [She sits down beside
her basket].
THE DAUGHTER. Sixpence thrown away! Really, mamma, you
might have spared Freddy that. [She retreats in disgust behind the
pillar].
An elderly gentleman of the amiable military type rushes into shelter,
and closes a dripping umbrella. He is in the same plight as Freddy, very
wet about the ankles. He is in evening dress, with a light overcoat. He

takes the place left vacant by the daughter's retirement.
THE GENTLEMAN. Phew!
THE MOTHER [to the gentleman] Oh, sir, is there any sign of its
stopping?
THE GENTLEMAN. I'm afraid not. It started worse than ever about
two minutes ago. [He goes to the plinth beside the flower girl; puts up
his foot on it; and stoops to turn down his trouser ends].
THE MOTHER. Oh, dear! [She retires sadly and joins her daughter].
THE FLOWER GIRL [taking advantage of the military gentleman's
proximity to establish friendly relations with him]. If it's worse it's a
sign it's nearly over. So cheer up, Captain; and buy a flower off a poor
girl.
THE GENTLEMAN. I'm sorry, I haven't any change.
THE FLOWER GIRL. I can give you change, Captain,
THE GENTLEMEN. For a sovereign? I've nothing less.
THE FLOWER GIRL. Garn! Oh do buy a flower off me, Captain. I can
change half-a-crown. Take this for tuppence.
THE GENTLEMAN. Now don't be troublesome: there's a good girl.
[Trying his pockets] I really haven't any change--Stop: here's three
hapence, if that's any use to you [he retreats to the other pillar].
THE FLOWER GIRL [disappointed, but thinking three halfpence
better than nothing] Thank you, sir.
THE BYSTANDER [to the girl] You be careful: give him a flower for
it. There's a bloke here behind taking down every blessed word you're
saying. [All turn to the man who is taking notes].
THE FLOWER GIRL [springing up terrified] I ain't done nothing
wrong by speaking to the gentleman. I've a right to sell flowers if I
keep off the kerb. [Hysterically] I'm a respectable girl: so help me, I
never spoke to him except to ask him to buy a flower off me. [General
hubbub, mostly sympathetic to the flower girl, but deprecating her
excessive sensibility. Cries of Don't start hollerin. Who's hurting you?
Nobody's going to touch you. What's the good of fussing? Steady on.
Easy, easy, etc., come from the elderly staid spectators, who pat her
comfortingly. Less patient ones bid her shut her head, or ask her
roughly what is wrong with her. A remoter group, not knowing what
the matter is, crowd in and increase the noise with question and answer:
What's the row? What she do? Where is he? A tec taking her down.

What! him? Yes: him over there: Took money off the gentleman, etc.
The flower girl, distraught and mobbed, breaks through them to the
gentleman, crying mildly] Oh, sir, don't let him charge me. You dunno
what it means to me. They'll take away my character and drive me on
the streets for speaking to gentlemen. They--
THE NOTE TAKER [coming forward on her right, the rest crowding
after him] There, there, there, there! Who's hurting you, you silly girl?
What do you take me for?
THE BYSTANDER. It's all right: he's a gentleman: look at his boots.
[Explaining to the note taker] She thought you was a copper's nark, sir.
THE NOTE TAKER [with quick interest] What's a copper's nark?
THE BYSTANDER [inept at definition] It's a--well, it's a copper's nark,
as you might say. What else would you call it? A sort of informer.
THE FLOWER GIRL [still hysterical] I take my Bible oath I never said
a word--
THE NOTE TAKER [overbearing but good-humored] Oh, shut up,
shut up. Do I look like a policeman?
THE FLOWER GIRL [far from reassured] Then what did you take
down my words for? How do I know whether you took me down right?
You just show me what you've wrote about me. [The note taker opens
his book and holds it steadily under her nose, though the pressure of the
mob trying to read it over his shoulders would upset a weaker man].
What's that? That ain't proper writing. I can't read that.
THE NOTE TAKER. I can. [Reads, reproducing her pronunciation
exactly] "Cheer ap, Keptin; n'