o 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?

LEMMY. Nao; but it'd syve a lot o' blood.

[LORD WILLIAM stops abruptly, and looks first at LEMMY, then at
the cooler, still cohered with the Chinese mat.]

Yer thought the Englishman could be taught to shed blood wiv syfety.
Not 'im! Once yer git 'im into an 'abit, yer cawn't git 'im out of
it agyne. 'E'll go on sheddin' blood mechanical--Conservative by
nyture. An' 'e won't myke nuffin' o' yours. Not even the Press wiv
'is 'oneyed words'll sty 'is 'and.

LORD W. And what do you suggest we could have done, to avoid
trouble?

LEMMY. [Warming to his theme] I'll tell yer. If all you wealfy
nobs wiv kepitel 'ad come it kind from the start after the war yer'd
never 'a been 'earin' the Marseillaisy naow. Lord! 'Ow you did talk
abaht Unity and a noo spirit in the Country. Noo spirit! Why, soon
as ever there was no dynger from outside, yer stawted to myke it
inside, wiv an iron'and. Naow, you've been in the war an' it's given
yer a feelin' 'eart; but most of the nobs wiv kepitel was too old or
too important to fight. They weren't born agyne. So naow that bad
times is come, we're 'owlin' for their blood.

LORD W. I quite agree; I quite agree. I've often said much the same
thing.

LEMMY. Voice cryin' in the wilderness--I daon't sy we was yngels--
there was faults on bofe sides. [He looks at THE PRESS] The Press
could ha' helped yer a lot. Shall I tell yer wot the Press did?
"It's vital," said the Press, "that the country should be united, or
it will never recover." Nao strikes, nao 'omen nature, nao nuffink.
Kepitel an' Lybour like the Siamese twins. And, fust dispute that
come along, the Press orfs wiv its coat an' goes at it bald'eaded.
An' wot abaht since? Sich a riot o' nymes called, in Press--and
Pawlyement. Unpatriotic an' outrygeous demands o' lybour.
Blood-suckin' tyranny o' Kepitel; thieves an' dawgs an 'owlin
Jackybines--gents throwin' books at each other; all the resources of
edjucytion exhausted! If I'd bin Prime Minister I'd 'ave 'ad the
Press's gas cut 'orf