Pygmalion

All the rest have gone except the note taker, the gentleman, and the

flower girl, who sits arranging her basket, and still pitying herself

in murmurs.

THE FLOWER GIRL. Poor girl! Hard enough for her to live without being

worrited and chivied.

THE GENTLEMAN [returning to his former place on the note taker's left]

How do you do it, if I may ask?

THE NOTE TAKER. Simply phonetics. The science of speech. That's my

profession; also my hobby. Happy is the man who can make a living by

his hobby! You can spot an Irishman or a Yorkshireman by his brogue. I

can place any man within six miles. I can place him within two miles in

London. Sometimes within two streets.

THE FLOWER GIRL. Ought to be ashamed of himself, unmanly coward!

THE GENTLEMAN. But is there a living in that?

THE NOTE TAKER. Oh yes. Quite a fat one. This is an age of upstarts.

Men begin in Kentish Town with 80 pounds a year, and end in Park Lane

with a hundred thousand. They want to drop Kentish Town; but they give

themselves away every time they open their mouths. Now I can teach

them--

THE FLOWER GIRL. Let him mind his own business and leave a poor girl--

THE NOTE TAKER [explosively] Woman: cease this detestable boohooing

instantly; or else seek the shelter of some other place of worship.

THE FLOWER GIRL [with feeble defiance] I've a right to be here if I

like, same as you.

THE NOTE TAKER. A woman who utters such depressing and disgusting

sounds has no right to be anywhere--no right to live. Remember that you

are a human being with a soul and the divine gift of articulate speech:

that your native language is the language of Shakespear and Milton and

The Bible; and don't sit there crooning like a bilious pigeon.

THE FLOWER GIRL [quite overwhelmed, and looking up at him in mingled

wonder and deprecation without daring to raise her head]

Ah--ah--ah--ow--ow--oo!

THE NOTE TAKER [whipping out his book] Heavens! what a sound! [He

writes; then holds out the book and reads, reproducing her vowels

exactly] Ah--ah--ah--ow--ow--ow--oo!

THE FLOWER GIRL [tickled by the performance, and laughing in spite of

herself] Garn!

THE NOTE TAKER. You see this creature with her kerbstone English: the

English that will keep her in the gutter to the end of her days. Well,

sir, in three months I could pass that girl off as a duchess at an

ambassador's garden party. I could even get her a place as lady's maid

or shop assistant, which requires better English. That's the sort of

thing I do for commercial millionaires. And on the profits of it I do