Pygmalion

HIGGINS. You see, we're all savages, more or less. We're supposed to be

civilized and cultured--to know all about poetry and philosophy and art

and science, and so on; but how many of us know even the meanings of

these names? [To Miss Hill] What do you know of poetry? [To Mrs. Hill]

What do you know of science? [Indicating Freddy] What does he know of

art or science or anything else? What the devil do you imagine I know

of philosophy?

MRS. HIGGINS [warningly] Or of manners, Henry?

THE PARLOR-MAID [opening the door] Miss Doolittle. [She withdraws].

HIGGINS [rising hastily and running to Mrs. Higgins] Here she is,

mother. [He stands on tiptoe and makes signs over his mother's head to

Eliza to indicate to her which lady is her hostess].

Eliza, who is exquisitely dressed, produces an impression of such

remarkable distinction and beauty as she enters that they all rise,

quite flustered. Guided by Higgins's signals, she comes to Mrs. Higgins

with studied grace.

LIZA [speaking with pedantic correctness of pronunciation and great

beauty of tone] How do you do, Mrs. Higgins? [She gasps slightly in

making sure of the H in Higgins, but is quite successful]. Mr. Higgins

told me I might come.

MRS. HIGGINS [cordially] Quite right: I'm very glad indeed to see you.

PICKERING. How do you do, Miss Doolittle?

LIZA [shaking hands with him] Colonel Pickering, is it not?

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. I feel sure we have met before, Miss Doolittle. I

remember your eyes.

LIZA. How do you do? [She sits down on the ottoman gracefully in the

place just left vacant by Higgins].

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [introducing] My daughter Clara.

LIZA. How do you do?

CLARA [impulsively] How do you do? [She sits down on the ottoman beside

Eliza, devouring her with her eyes].

FREDDY [coming to their side of the ottoman] I've certainly had the

pleasure.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [introducing] My son Freddy.

LIZA. How do you do?

Freddy bows and sits down in the Elizabethan chair, infatuated.

HIGGINS [suddenly] By George, yes: it all comes back to me! [They stare

at him]. Covent Garden! [Lamentably] What a damned thing!

MRS. HIGGINS. Henry, please! [He is about to sit on the edge of the

table]. Don't sit on my writing-table: you'll break it.

HIGGINS [sulkily] Sorry.

He goes to the divan, stumbling into the fender and over the fire-irons

on his way; extricating himself with muttered imprecations; and

finishing his disastrous journey by throwing himself so impatiently on

the divan that he almost breaks it. Mrs. Higgins looks at him, but

controls herself and says nothing.

A long and painful pause ensues.