an snivelling; better than fetching slippers and finding
spectacles, isn't it? [Rising] By George, Eliza, I said I'd make a
woman of you; and I have. I like you like this.

LIZA. Yes: you turn round and make up to me now that I'm not afraid of
you, and can do without you.

HIGGINS. Of course I do, you little fool. Five minutes ago you were
like a millstone round my neck. Now you're a tower of strength: a
consort battleship. You and I and Pickering will be three old bachelors
together instead of only two men and a silly girl.

Mrs. Higgins returns, dressed for the wedding. Eliza instantly becomes
cool and elegant.

MRS. HIGGINS. The carriage is waiting, Eliza. Are you ready?

LIZA. Quite. Is the Professor coming?

MRS. HIGGINS. Certainly not. He can't behave himself in church. He
makes remarks out loud all the time on the clergyman's pronunciation.

LIZA. Then I shall not see you again, Professor. Good bye. [She goes to
the door].

MRS. HIGGINS [coming to Higgins] Good-bye, dear.

HIGGINS. Good-bye, mother. [He is about to kiss her, when he recollects
something]. Oh, by the way, Eliza, order a ham and a Stilton cheese,
will you? And buy me a pair of reindeer gloves, number eights, and a
tie to match that new suit of mine, at Eale & Binman's. You can choose
the color. [His cheerful, careless, vigorous voice shows that he is
incorrigible].

LIZA [disdainfully] Buy them yourself. [She sweeps out].

MRS. HIGGINS. I'm afraid you've spoiled that girl, Henry. But never
mind, dear: I'll buy you the tie and gloves.

HIGGINS [sunnily] Oh, don't bother. She'll buy em all right enough.
Good-bye.

They kiss. Mrs. Higgins runs out. Higgins, left alone, rattles his cash
in his pocket; chuckles; and disports himself in a highly
self-satisfied manner.

***********************

The rest of the story need not be shown in action, and indeed, would
hardly need telling if our imaginations were not so enfeebled by their
lazy dependence on the ready-makes and reach-me-downs of the ragshop in
which Romance keeps its stock of "happy endings" to misfit all stories.
Now, the history of Eliza Doolittle, though called a romance because of
the transfiguration it records seems exceedingly improbable, is common
enough. Such transfigurations have been achieved by hundreds of
resolutely ambitious young women since Nell Gwynne set them the example
by playing queens and fascinating kings in the theatre in which she
be