Act III

It is Mrs. Higgins's at-home day. Nobody has yet arrived. Her

drawing-room, in a flat on Chelsea embankment, has three windows

looking on the river; and the ceiling is not so lofty as it would

be in an older house of the same pretension. The windows are

open, giving access to a balcony with flowers in pots. If you

stand with your face to the windows, you have the fireplace on

your left and the door in the right-hand wall close to the corner

nearest the windows.

Mrs. Higgins was brought up on Morris and Burne Jones; and her

room, which is very unlike her son's room in Wimpole Street, is

not crowded with furniture and little tables and nicknacks. In

the middle of the room there is a big ottoman; and this, with the

carpet, the Morris wall-papers, and the Morris chintz window

curtains and brocade covers of the ottoman and its cushions,

supply all the ornament, and are much too handsome to be hidden

by odds and ends of useless things. A few good oil-paintings from

the exhibitions in the Grosvenor Gallery thirty years ago (the

Burne Jones, not the Whistler side of them) are on the walls. The

only landscape is a Cecil Lawson on the scale of a Rubens. There

is a portrait of Mrs. Higgins as she was when she defied fashion

in her youth in one of the beautiful Rossettian costumes which,

when caricatured by people who did not understand, led to the

absurdities of popular estheticism in the eighteen-seventies.

In the corner diagonally opposite the door Mrs. Higgins, now over

sixty and long past taking the trouble to dress out of the

fashion, sits writing at an elegantly simple writing-table with a

bell button within reach of her hand. There is a Chippendale

chair further back in the room between her and the window nearest

her side. At the other side of the room, further forward, is an

Elizabethan chair roughly carved in the taste of Inigo Jones. On

the same side a piano in a decorated case. The corner between the

fireplace and the window is occupied by a divan cushioned in

Morris chintz.

It is between four and five in the afternoon.

The door is opened violently; and Higgins enters with his hat on.

MRS. HIGGINS [dismayed] Henry [scolding him]! What are you doing

here to-day? It is my at home day: you promised not to come. [As

he bends to kiss her, she takes his hat off, and presents it to

him].

HIGGINS. Oh bother! [He throws the hat down on the table].

MRS. HIGGINS. Go home at once.

HIGGINS [kissing her] I know, mother. I came on purpose.

MRS. HIGGINS. But you mustn't. I'm serious, Henry. You offend all

my friends: they stop coming whenever they meet you.

HIGGINS. Nonsense! I know I have no small talk; but people don't

mind. [He sits on the settee].

MRS. HIGGINS. Oh! don't they? Small talk indeed! What about your

large talk? Really, dear, you mustn't stay.

HIGGINS. I must. I've a job for you. A phonetic job.

MRS. HIGGINS. No use, dear. I'm sorry; but I can't get round your

vowels; and though I like to get pretty postcards in your patent

shorthand, I always have to read the copies in ordinary writing

you so thoughtfully send me.

HIGGINS. Well, this isn't a phonetic job.

MRS. HIGGINS. You said it was.

HIGGINS. Not your part of it. I've picked up a girl.

MRS. HIGGINS. Does that mean that some girl has picked you up?

HIGGINS. Not at all. I don't mean a love affair.

MRS. HIGGINS. What a pity!

HIGGINS. Why?

MRS. HIGGINS. Well, you never fall in love with anyone under

forty-five. When will you discover that there are some rather

nice-looking young women about?

HIGGINS. Oh, I can't be bothered with young women. My idea of a

loveable woman is something as like you as possible. I shall

never get into the way of seriously liking young women: some

habits lie too deep to be changed. [Rising abruptly and walking

about, jingling his money and his keys in his trouser pockets]

Besides, they're all idiots.

MRS. HIGGINS. Do you know what you would do if you really loved

me, Henry?

HIGGINS. Oh bother! What? Marry, I suppose?

MRS. HIGGINS. No. Stop fidgeting and take your hands out of your

pockets. [With a gesture of despair, he obeys and sits down

again]. That's a good boy. Now tell me about the girl.

HIGGINS. She's coming to see you.

MRS. HIGGINS. I don't remember asking her.

HIGGINS. You didn't. I asked her. If you'd known her you wouldn't

have asked her.

MRS. HIGGINS. Indeed! Why?

HIGGINS. Well, it's like this. She's a common flower girl. I

picked her off the kerbstone.

MRS. HIGGINS. And invited her to my at-home!

HIGGINS [rising and coming to her to coax her] Oh, that'll be all

right. I've taught her to speak properly; and she has strict

orders as to her behavior. She's to keep to two subjects: the

weather and everybody's health—Fine day and How do you do, you

know—and not to let herself go on things in general. That will

be safe.

MRS. HIGGINS. Safe! To talk about our health! about our insides!

perhaps about our outsides! How could you be so silly, Henry?

HIGGINS [impatiently] Well, she must talk about something. [He

controls himself and sits down again]. Oh, she'll be all right:

don't you fuss. Pickering is in it with me. I've a sort of bet on

that I'll pass her off as a duchess in six months. I started on

her some months ago; and she's getting on like a house on fire. I

shall win my bet. She has a quick ear; and she's been easier to

teach than my middle-class pupils because she's had to learn a

complete new language. She talks English almost as you talk

French.

MRS. HIGGINS. That's satisfactory, at all events.

HIGGINS. Well, it is and it isn't.

MRS. HIGGINS. What does that mean?

HIGGINS. You see, I've got her pronunciation all right; but you

have to consider not only how a girl pronounces, but what she

pronounces; and that's where—

They are interrupted by the parlor-maid, announcing guests.

THE PARLOR-MAID. Mrs. and Miss Eynsford Hill. [She withdraws].

HIGGINS. Oh Lord! [He rises; snatches his hat from the table; and

makes for the door; but before he reaches it his mother

introduces him].

Mrs. and Miss Eynsford Hill are the mother and daughter who

sheltered from the rain in Covent Garden. The mother is well

bred, quiet, and has the habitual anxiety of straitened means.

The daughter has acquired a gay air of being very much at home in

society: the bravado of genteel poverty.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [to Mrs. Higgins] How do you do? [They shake

hands].

Miss EYNSFORD HILL. How d'you do? [She shakes].

MRS. HIGGINS [introducing] My son Henry.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Your celebrated son! I have so longed to meet

you, Professor Higgins.

HIGGINS [glumly, making no movement in her direction] Delighted.

[He backs against the piano and bows brusquely].

Miss EYNSFORD HILL [going to him with confident familiarity] How

do you do?

HIGGINS [staring at her] I've seen you before somewhere. I

haven't the ghost of a notion where; but I've heard your voice.

[Drearily] It doesn't matter. You'd better sit down.

MRS. HIGGINS. I'm sorry to say that my celebrated son has no

manners. You mustn't mind him.

MISS EYNSFORD HILL [gaily] I don't. [She sits in the Elizabethan

chair].

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [a little bewildered] Not at all. [She sits on

the ottoman between her daughter and Mrs. Higgins, who has turned

her chair away from the writing-table].

HIGGINS. Oh, have I been rude? I didn't mean to be. He goes to

the central window, through which, with his back to the company,

he contemplates the river and the flowers in Battersea Park on

the opposite bank as if they were a frozen dessert.

The parlor-maid returns, ushering in Pickering.

THE PARLOR-MAID. Colonel Pickering [She withdraws].

PICKERING. How do you do, Mrs. Higgins?

MRS. HIGGINS. So glad you've come. Do you know Mrs. Eynsford

Hill—Miss Eynsford Hill? [Exchange of bows. The Colonel brings

the Chippendale chair a little forward between Mrs. Hill and Mrs.

Higgins, and sits down].

PICKERING. Has Henry told you what we've come for?

HIGGINS [over his shoulder] We were interrupted: damn it!

MRS. HIGGINS. Oh Henry, Henry, really!

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [half rising] Are we in the way?

MRS. HIGGINS [rising and making her sit down again] No, no. You

couldn't have come more fortunately: we want you to meet a friend

of ours.

HIGGINS [turning hopefully] Yes, by George! We want two or three

people. You'll do as well as anybody else.

The parlor-maid returns, ushering Freddy.

THE PARLOR-MAID. Mr. Eynsford Hill.

HIGGINS [almost audibly, past endurance] God of Heaven! another

of them.

FREDDY [shaking hands with Mrs. Higgins] Ahdedo?

MRS. HIGGINS. Very good of you to come. [Introducing] Colonel

Pickering.

FREDDY [bowing] Ahdedo?

MRS. HIGGINS. I don't think you know my son, Professor Higgins.

FREDDY [going to Higgins] Ahdedo?

HIGGINS [looking at him much as if he were a pickpocket] I'll

take my oath I've met you before somewhere. Where was it?

FREDDY. I don't think so.

HIGGINS [resignedly] It don't matter, anyhow. Sit down. He shakes

Freddy's hand, and almost slings him on the ottoman with his face

to the windows; then comes round to the other side of it.

HIGGINS. Well, here we are, anyhow! [He sits down on the ottoman

next Mrs. Eynsford Hill, on her left]. And now, what the devil

are we going to talk about until Eliza comes?

MRS. HIGGINS. Henry: you are the life and soul of the Royal

Society's soirees; but really you're rather trying on more

commonplace occasions.

HIGGINS. Am I? Very sorry. [Beaming suddenly] I suppose I am, you

know. [Uproariously] Ha, ha!

MISS EYNSFORD HILL [who considers Higgins quite eligible

matrimonially] I sympathize. I haven't any small talk. If people

would only be frank and say what they really think!

HIGGINS [relapsing into gloom] Lord forbid!

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [taking up her daughter's cue] But why?

HIGGINS. What they think they ought to think is bad enough, Lord

knows; but what they really think would break up the whole show.

Do you suppose it would be really agreeable if I were to come out

now with what I really think?

MISS EYNSFORD HILL [gaily] Is it so very cynical?

HIGGINS. Cynical! Who the dickens said it was cynical? I mean it

wouldn't be decent.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [seriously] Oh! I'm sure you don't mean that,

Mr. Higgins.

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.

MRS. HIGGINS [at last, conversationally] Will it rain, do you

think?

LIZA. The shallow depression in the west of these islands is

likely to move slowly in an easterly direction. There are no

indications of any great change in the barometrical situation.

FREDDY. Ha! ha! how awfully funny!

LIZA. What is wrong with that, young man? I bet I got it right.

FREDDY. Killing!

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. I'm sure I hope it won't turn cold. There's

so much influenza about. It runs right through our whole family

regularly every spring.

LIZA [darkly] My aunt died of influenza: so they said.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [clicks her tongue sympathetically]!!!

LIZA [in the same tragic tone] But it's my belief they done the

old woman in.

MRS. HIGGINS [puzzled] Done her in?

LIZA. Y-e-e-e-es, Lord love you! Why should she die of influenza?

She come through diphtheria right enough the year before. I saw

her with my own eyes. Fairly blue with it, she was. They all

thought she was dead; but my father he kept ladling gin down her

throat til she came to so sudden that she bit the bowl off the

spoon.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [startled] Dear me!

LIZA [piling up the indictment] What call would a woman with that

strength in her have to die of influenza? What become of her new

straw hat that should have come to me? Somebody pinched it; and

what I say is, them as pinched it done her in.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. What does doing her in mean?

HIGGINS [hastily] Oh, that's the new small talk. To do a person

in means to kill them.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [to Eliza, horrified] You surely don't believe

that your aunt was killed?

LIZA. Do I not! Them she lived with would have killed her for a

hat-pin, let alone a hat.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. But it can't have been right for your father

to pour spirits down her throat like that. It might have killed

her.

LIZA. Not her. Gin was mother's milk to her. Besides, he'd poured

so much down his own throat that he knew the good of it.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Do you mean that he drank?

LIZA. Drank! My word! Something chronic.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. How dreadful for you!

LIZA. Not a bit. It never did him no harm what I could see. But

then he did not keep it up regular. [Cheerfully] On the burst, as

you might say, from time to time. And always more agreeable when

he had a drop in. When he was out of work, my mother used to give

him fourpence and tell him to go out and not come back until he'd

drunk himself cheerful and loving-like. There's lots of women has

to make their husbands drunk to make them fit to live with. [Now

quite at her ease] You see, it's like this. If a man has a bit of

a conscience, it always takes him when he's sober; and then it

makes him low-spirited. A drop of booze just takes that off and

makes him happy. [To Freddy, who is in convulsions of suppressed

laughter] Here! what are you sniggering at?

FREDDY. The new small talk. You do it so awfully well.

LIZA. If I was doing it proper, what was you laughing at? [To

Higgins] Have I said anything I oughtn't?

MRS. HIGGINS [interposing] Not at all, Miss Doolittle.

LIZA. Well, that's a mercy, anyhow. [Expansively] What I always

say is—

HIGGINS [rising and looking at his watch] Ahem!

LIZA [looking round at him; taking the hint; and rising] Well: I

must go. [They all rise. Freddy goes to the door]. So pleased to

have met you. Good-bye. [She shakes hands with Mrs. Higgins].

MRS. HIGGINS. Good-bye.

LIZA. Good-bye, Colonel Pickering.

PICKERING. Good-bye, Miss Doolittle. [They shake hands].

LIZA [nodding to the others] Good-bye, all.

FREDDY [opening the door for her] Are you walking across the

Park, Miss Doolittle? If so—

LIZA. Walk! Not bloody likely. [Sensation]. I am going in a taxi.

[She goes out].

Pickering gasps and sits down. Freddy goes out on the balcony to

catch another glimpse of Eliza.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [suffering from shock] Well, I really can't

get used to the new ways.

CLARA [throwing herself discontentedly into the Elizabethan

chair]. Oh, it's all right, mamma, quite right. People will think

we never go anywhere or see anybody if you are so old-fashioned.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. I daresay I am very old-fashioned; but I do

hope you won't begin using that expression, Clara. I have got

accustomed to hear you talking about men as rotters, and calling

everything filthy and beastly; though I do think it horrible and

unladylike. But this last is really too much. Don't you think so,

Colonel Pickering?

PICKERING. Don't ask me. I've been away in India for several

years; and manners have changed so much that I sometimes don't

know whether I'm at a respectable dinner-table or in a ship's

forecastle.

CLARA. It's all a matter of habit. There's no right or wrong in

it. Nobody means anything by it. And it's so quaint, and gives

such a smart emphasis to things that are not in themselves very

witty. I find the new small talk delightful and quite innocent.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [rising] Well, after that, I think it's time

for us to go.

Pickering and Higgins rise.

CLARA [rising] Oh yes: we have three at homes to go to still.

Good-bye, Mrs. Higgins. Good-bye, Colonel Pickering. Good-bye,

Professor Higgins.

HIGGINS [coming grimly at her from the divan, and accompanying

her to the door] Good-bye. Be sure you try on that small talk at

the three at-homes. Don't be nervous about it. Pitch it in

strong.

CLARA [all smiles] I will. Good-bye. Such nonsense, all this

early Victorian prudery!

HIGGINS [tempting her] Such damned nonsense!

CLARA. Such bloody nonsense!

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [convulsively] Clara!

CLARA. Ha! ha! [She goes out radiant, conscious of being

thoroughly up to date, and is heard descending the stairs in a

stream of silvery laughter].

FREDDY [to the heavens at large] Well, I ask you [He gives it up,

and comes to Mrs. Higgins]. Good-bye.

MRS. HIGGINS [shaking hands] Good-bye. Would you like to meet

Miss Doolittle again?

FREDDY [eagerly] Yes, I should, most awfully.

MRS. HIGGINS. Well, you know my days.

FREDDY. Yes. Thanks awfully. Good-bye. [He goes out].

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Good-bye, Mr. Higgins.

HIGGINS. Good-bye. Good-bye.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [to Pickering] It's no use. I shall never be

able to bring myself to use that word.

PICKERING. Don't. It's not compulsory, you know. You'll get on

quite well without it.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Only, Clara is so down on me if I am not

positively reeking with the latest slang. Good-bye.

PICKERING. Good-bye [They shake hands].

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL [to Mrs. Higgins] You mustn't mind Clara.

[Pickering, catching from her lowered tone that this is not meant

for him to hear, discreetly joins Higgins at the window]. We're

so poor! and she gets so few parties, poor child! She doesn't

quite know. [Mrs. Higgins, seeing that her eyes are moist, takes

her hand sympathetically and goes with her to the door]. But the

boy is nice. Don't you think so?

MRS. HIGGINS. Oh, quite nice. I shall always be delighted to see

him.

MRS. EYNSFORD HILL. Thank you, dear. Good-bye. [She goes out].

HIGGINS [eagerly] Well? Is Eliza presentable [he swoops on his

mother and drags her to the ottoman, where she sits down in

Eliza's place with her son on her left]?

Pickering returns to his chair on her right.

MRS. HIGGINS. You silly boy, of course she's not presentable.

She's a triumph of your art and of her dressmaker's; but if you

suppose for a moment that she doesn't give herself away in every

sentence she utters, you must be perfectly cracked about her.

PICKERING. But don't you think something might be done? I mean

something to eliminate the sanguinary element from her

conversation.

MRS. HIGGINS. Not as long as she is in Henry's hands.

HIGGINS [aggrieved] Do you mean that my language is improper?

MRS. HIGGINS. No, dearest: it would be quite proper—say on a

canal barge; but it would not be proper for her at a garden

party.

HIGGINS [deeply injured] Well I must say—

PICKERING [interrupting him] Come, Higgins: you must learn to

know yourself. I haven't heard such language as yours since we

used to review the volunteers in Hyde Park twenty years ago.

HIGGINS [sulkily] Oh, well, if you say so, I suppose I don't

always talk like a bishop.

MRS. HIGGINS [quieting Henry with a touch] Colonel Pickering:

will you tell me what is the exact state of things in Wimpole

Street?

PICKERING [cheerfully: as if this completely changed the subject]

Well, I have come to live there with Henry. We work together at

my Indian Dialects; and we think it more convenient—

MRS. HIGGINS. Quite so. I know all about that: it's an excellent

arrangement. But where does this girl live?

HIGGINS. With us, of course. Where would she live?

MRS. HIGGINS. But on what terms? Is she a servant? If not, what

is she?

PICKERING [slowly] I think I know what you mean, Mrs. Higgins.

HIGGINS. Well, dash me if I do! I've had to work at the girl

every day for months to get her to her present pitch. Besides,

she's useful. She knows where my things are, and remembers my

appointments and so forth.

MRS. HIGGINS. How does your housekeeper get on with her?

HIGGINS. Mrs. Pearce? Oh, she's jolly glad to get so much taken

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—

HIGGINS [assailing her at the other ear] Yes, by George: it's the

most absorbing experiment I ever tackled. She regularly fills our

lives up; doesn't she, Pick?

PICKERING. We're always talking Eliza.

HIGGINS. Teaching Eliza.

PICKERING. Dressing Eliza.

MRS. HIGGINS. What!

HIGGINS. Inventing new Elizas.

Higgins and Pickering, speaking together:

HIGGINS. You know, she has the most extraordinary quickness of

ear:

PICKERING. I assure you, my dear Mrs. Higgins, that girl

HIGGINS. just like a parrot. I've tried her with every

PICKERING. is a genius. She can play the piano quite

beautifully

HIGGINS. possible sort of sound that a human being can make—

PICKERING. We have taken her to classical concerts and to music

HIGGINS. Continental dialects, African dialects, Hottentot

PICKERING. halls; and it's all the same to her: she plays

everything

HIGGINS. clicks, things it took me years to get hold of; and

PICKERING. she hears right off when she comes home, whether it's

HIGGINS. she picks them up like a shot, right away, as if she

had

PICKERING. Beethoven and Brahms or Lehar and Lionel Morickton;

HIGGINS. been at it all her life.

PICKERING. though six months ago, she'd never as much as touched

a piano.

MRS. HIGGINS [putting her fingers in her ears, as they are by

this time shouting one another down with an intolerable noise]

Sh—sh—sh—sh! [They stop].

PICKERING. I beg your pardon. [He draws his chair back

apologetically].

HIGGINS. Sorry. When Pickering starts shouting nobody can get a

word in edgeways.

MRS. HIGGINS. Be quiet, Henry. Colonel Pickering: don't you

realize that when Eliza walked into Wimpole Street, something

walked in with her?

PICKERING. Her father did. But Henry soon got rid of him.

MRS. HIGGINS. It would have been more to the point if her mother

had. But as her mother didn't something else did.

PICKERING. But what?

MRS. HIGGINS [unconsciously dating herself by the word] A

problem.

PICKERING. Oh, I see. The problem of how to pass her off as a

lady.

HIGGINS. I'll solve that problem. I've half solved it already.

MRS. HIGGINS. No, you two infinitely stupid male creatures: the

problem of what is to be done with her afterwards.

HIGGINS. I don't see anything in that. She can go her own way,

with all the advantages I have given her.

MRS. HIGGINS. The advantages of that poor woman who was here just

now! The manners and habits that disqualify a fine lady from

earning her own living without giving her a fine lady's income!

Is that what you mean?

PICKERING [indulgently, being rather bored] Oh, that will be all

right, Mrs. Higgins. [He rises to go].

HIGGINS [rising also] We'll find her some light employment.

PICKERING. She's happy enough. Don't you worry about her. Good-

bye. [He shakes hands as if he were consoling a frightened child,

and makes for the door].

HIGGINS. Anyhow, there's no good bothering now. The thing's done.

Good-bye, mother. [He kisses her, and follows Pickering].

PICKERING [turning for a final consolation] There are plenty of

openings. We'll do what's right. Good-bye.

HIGGINS [to Pickering as they go out together] Let's take her to

the Shakespear exhibition at Earls Court.

PICKERING. Yes: let's. Her remarks will be delicious.

HIGGINS. She'll mimic all the people for us when we get home.

PICKERING. Ripping. [Both are heard laughing as they go

downstairs].

MRS. HIGGINS [rises with an impatient bounce, and returns to her

work at the writing-table. She sweeps a litter of disarranged

papers out of her way; snatches a sheet of paper from her

stationery case; and tries resolutely to write. At the third line

she gives it up; flings down her pen; grips the table angrily and

exclaims] Oh, men! men!! men!!!