Writing] "The heartbeat of humanity was in that grasp
between the son of toil and the son of leisure."

LEMMY. [Already ashamed of his emotion] 'Ere, 'arf a mo'! Which is
which? Daon't forget I'm aht o' wori; Lord William, if that's 'is
nyme, is workin 'ard at 'is Anti-Sweats! Wish I could get a job like
vat--jist suit me!

LORD W. That hits hard, Mr. Lemmy.

LEMMY. Daon't worry! Yer cawn't 'elp bein' born in the purple!

LORD W. Ah! Tell me, what would you do in my place?

LEMMY. Why--as the nobleman said in 'is well-known wy: "Sit in me
Club winder an' watch it ryne on the dam people!" That's if I was a
average nobleman! If I was a bit more noble, I might be tempted to
come the kind'earted on twenty thou' a year. Some prefers yachts, or
ryce 'orses. But philanthropy on the 'ole is syfer, in these dyes.

LORD W. So you think one takes to it as a sort of insurance, Mr.
Lemmy? Is that quite fair?

LEMMY. Well, we've all got a weakness towards bein' kind, somewhere
abaht us. But the moment wealf comes in, we 'yn't wot I call
single-'earted. If yer went into the foundytions of your wealf--would
yer feel like 'avin' any? It all comes from uvver people's 'ard,
unpleasant lybour--it's all built on Muvver as yer might sy. An' if
yer daon't get rid o' some of it in bein' kind--yer daon't feel syfe
nor comfy.

LORD W. [Twisting his moustache] Your philosophy is very pessimistic.

LEMMY. Well, I calls meself an optimist; I sees the worst of
everyfink. Never disappynted, can afford to 'ave me smile under the
blackest sky. When deaf is squeezin' of me windpipe, I shall 'ave a
laugh in it! Fact is, if yer've 'ad to do wiv gas an' water pipes,
yer can fyce anyfing. [The distant Marseillaise blares up] 'Ark at
the revolution!

LORD W. [Rather desperately] I know--hunger and all the rest of it!
And here am I, a rich man, and don't know what the deuce to do.

LEMMY. Well, I'll tell yer. Throw yer cellars open, an' while the
populyce is gettin' drunk, sell all yer 'ave an' go an' live in
Ireland; they've got the millennium chronic over there.

[LORD WILLIAM utters a short, vexed laugh, and begins to walk
about.]

That's speakin' as a practical man. Speakin' as a synt "Bruvvers,
all I 'ave is yours. To-morrer I'm goin' dahn to the Lybour Exchynge
to git put on the wytin' list, syme as you!"

LORD W. But, d---it, man, there we should be, all together! Would
that help?

LEMM