Chapter: Covent Garden at 11.15 p.m. Torrents of heavy summer rain. Cab whistles
blowing frantically in all directions. Pedestrians running for shelter
into the market and under the portico of St. Paul's Church, where there
are already several people, among them a lady and her daughter in
evening dress. They are all peering out gloomily at the rain, except
one man with his back turned to the rest, who seems wholly preoccupied
with a notebook in which he is writing busily.

The church clock strikes the first quarter.

THE DAUGHTER [in the space between the central pillars, close to the
one on her left] I'm getting chilled to the bone. What can Freddy be
doing all this time? He's been gone twenty minutes.

THE MOTHER [on her daughter's right] Not so long. But he ought to have
got us a cab by this.

A BYSTANDER [on the lady's right] He won't get no cab not until
half-past eleven, missus, when they come back after dropping their
theatre fares.

THE MOTHER. But we must have a cab. We can't stand here until half-past
eleven. It's too bad.

THE BYSTANDER. Well, it ain't my fault, missus.

THE DAUGHTER. If Freddy had a bit of gumption, he would have got one at
the theatre door.

THE MOTHER. What could he have done, poor boy?

THE DAUGHTER. Other people got cabs. Why couldn't he?

Freddy rushes in out of the rain from the Southampton Street side, and
comes between them closing a dripping umbrella. He is a young man of
twenty, in evening dress, very wet around the ankles.

THE DAUGHTER. Well, haven't you got a cab?

FREDDY. There's not one to be had for love or money.

THE MOTHER. Oh, Freddy, there must be one. You can't have tried.

THE DAUGHTER. It's too tiresome. Do you expect us to go and get one
ourselves?

FREDDY. I tell you they're all engaged. The rain was so sudden: nobody
was prepared; and everybody had to take a cab. I've been to Charing
Cross one way and nearly to Ludgate Circus the other; and they were all
engaged.

THE MOTHER. Did you try Trafalgar Square?

FREDDY. There wasn't one at Trafalgar Square.

THE DAUGHTER. Did you try?

FREDDY. I tried as far as Charing Cross Station. Did you expect me to
walk to Hammersmith?

THE DAUGHTER. You haven't tried at all.

THE MOTHER. You really are very helpless, Freddy. Go again; and don't
come back until you have found a cab.

FREDDY. I shall simply get soaked for nothing.

THE DAUGHTER. And what about us? Are we to stay here all night in this
draught, with next to nothing on. You selfish pig--

FREDDY. Oh, very well: I'll go, I'll go. [He opens his umbrella and
dashes off Strandwards, but comes into collision with a flower girl,
       who is hurrying in for shelter, knocking her basket out of her hands. A
       blinding flash of lightning, followed instantly by a rattling peal of
       thunder, orchestrates the incident]

       THE FLOWER GIRL. Nah then, Freddy: look wh' y' gowin, deah.

       FREDDY. Sorry [he rushes off].

       THE FLOWER GIRL [picking up her scattered flowers and replacing them in
       the basket] There's menners f' yer! Te-oo banches o voylets trod into
       the mad. [She sits down on the plinth of the column, sorting her
       flowers, on the lady's right. She is not at all an attractive person.
       She is perhaps eighteen, perhaps twenty, hardly older. She wears a
       little sailor hat of black straw that has long been exposed to the dust
       and soot of London and has seldom if ever been brushed. Her hair needs
       washing rather badly: its mousy color can hardly be natural. She wears
       a shoddy black coat that reaches nearly to her knees and is shaped to
       her waist. She has a brown skirt with a coarse apron. Her boots are
       much the worse for wear. She is no doubt as clean as she can afford to
       be; but compared to the ladies she is very dirty. Her features are no
       worse than theirs; but their condition leaves something to be desired;
       and she needs the services of a dentist].

       THE MOTHER. How do you know that my son's name is Freddy, pray?

       THE FLOWER GIRL. Ow, eez ye-ooa san, is e? Wal, fewd dan y' de-ooty
       bawmz a mather should, eed now bettern to spawl a pore gel's flahrzn
       than ran awy atbaht pyin. Will ye-oo py me f'them? [Here, with
       apologies, this desperate attempt to represent her dialect without a
       phonetic alphabet must be abandoned as unintelligible outside London.]

       THE DAUGHTER. Do nothing of the sort, mother. The idea!

       THE MOTHER. Please allow me, Clara. Have you any pennies?

       THE DAUGHTER. No. I've nothing smaller than sixpence.

       THE FLOWER GIRL [hopefully] I can give you change for a tanner, kind
       lady.

       THE MOTHER [to Clara] Give it to me. [Clara parts reluctantly]. Now [to
       the girl] This is for your flowers.

       THE FLOWER GIRL. Thank you kindly, lady.

       THE DAUGHTER. Make her give you the change. These things are only a
       penny a bunch.

       THE MOTHER. Do hold your tongue, Clara. [To the girl]. You can keep the
       change.

       THE FLOWER GIRL. Oh, thank you, lady.

       THE MOTHER. Now tell me how you know that young gentleman's name.

       THE FLOWER GIRL. I didn't.

       THE MOTHER. I heard you call him by it. Don't try to deceive me.

       THE FLOWER GIRL [protesting] Who's trying to deceive you? I called him
       Freddy or Charlie same as you might yourself if you was talking to a
       stranger and wished to be pleasant. [She sits down beside her basket].

       THE DAUGHTER. Sixpence thrown away! Really, mamma, you might have
       spared Freddy that. [She retreats in disgust behind the pillar].

       An elderly gentleman of the amiable military type rushes into shelter,
       and closes a dripping umbrella. He is in the same plight as Freddy,
       very wet about the ankles. He is in evening dress, with a light
       overcoat. He takes the place left vacant by the daughter's retirement.

       THE GENTLEMAN. Phew!

       THE MOTHER [to the gentleman] Oh, sir, is there any sign of its
       stopping?

       THE GENTLEMAN. I'm afraid not. It started worse than ever about two
       minutes ago. [He goes to the plinth beside the flower girl; puts up his
       foot on it; and stoops to turn down his trouser ends].

       THE MOTHER. Oh, dear! [She retires sadly and joins her daughter].

       THE FLOWER GIRL [taking advantage of the military gentleman's proximity
       to establish friendly relations with him]. If it's worse it's a sign
       it's nearly over. So cheer up, Captain; and buy a flower off a poor
       girl.

       THE GENTLEMAN. I'm sorry, I haven't any change.

       THE FLOWER GIRL. I can give you change, Captain,

       THE GENTLEMEN. For a sovereign? I've nothing less.

       THE FLOWER GIRL. Garn! Oh do buy a flower off me, Captain. I can change
       half-a-crown. Take this for tuppence.

       THE GENTLEMAN. Now don't be troublesome: there's a good girl. [Trying
       his pockets] I really haven't any change--Stop: here's three hapence,
       if that's any use to you [he retreats to the other pillar].

       THE FLOWER GIRL [disappointed, but thinking three halfpence better than
       nothing] Thank you, sir.

       THE BYSTANDER [to the girl] You be careful: give him a flower for it.
       There's a bloke here behind taking down every blessed word you're
       saying. [All turn to the man who is taking notes].

       THE FLOWER GIRL [springing up terrified] I ain't done nothing wrong by
       speaking to the gentleman. I've a right to sell flowers if I keep off
       the kerb. [Hysterically] I'm a respectable girl: so help me, I never
       spoke to him except to ask him to buy a flower off me. [General hubbub,
       mostly sympathetic to the flower girl, but deprecating her excessive
       sensibility. Cries of Don't start hollerin. Who's hurting you? Nobody's
       going to touch you. What's the good of fussing? Steady on. Easy, easy,
       etc., come from the elderly staid spectators, who pat her comfortingly.
       Less patient ones bid her shut her head, or ask her roughly what is
       wrong with her. A remoter group, not knowing what the matter is, crowd
       in and increase the noise with question and answer: What's the row?
       What she do? Where is he? A tec taking her down. What! him? Yes: him
       over there: Took money off the gentleman, etc. The flower girl,
       distraught and mobbed, breaks through them to the gentleman, crying
       mildly] Oh, sir, don't let him charge me. You dunno what it means to
       me. They'll take away my character and drive me on the streets for
       speaking to gentlemen. They--

       THE NOTE TAKER [coming forward on her right, the rest crowding after
       him] There, there, there, there! Who's hurting you, you silly girl?
       What do you take me for?

       THE BYSTANDER. It's all right: he's a gentleman: look at his boots.
       [Explaining to the note taker] She thought you was a copper's nark, sir.

       THE NOTE TAKER [with quick interest] What's a copper's nark?

       THE BYSTANDER [inept at definition] It's a--well, it's a copper's nark,
       as you might say. What else would you call it? A sort of informer.

       THE FLOWER GIRL [still hysterical] I take my Bible oath I never said a
       word--

       THE NOTE TAKER [overbearing but good-humored] Oh, shut up, shut up. Do
       I look like a policeman?

       THE FLOWER GIRL [far from reassured] Then what did you take down my
       words for? How do I know whether you took me down right? You just show
       me what you've wrote about me. [The note taker opens his book and holds
       it steadily under her nose, though the pressure of the mob trying to
       read it over his shoulders would upset a weaker man]. What's that? That
       ain't proper writing. I can't read that.

       THE NOTE TAKER. I can. [Reads, reproducing her pronunciation exactly]
       "Cheer ap, Keptin; n' haw ya flahr orf a pore gel."

       THE FLOWER GIRL [much  distressed] It's because I called him Captain. I
       meant no harm. [To the gentleman] Oh, sir, don't let him lay a charge
       agen me for a word like that. You--

       THE GENTLEMAN. Charge! I make no charge. [To the note taker] Really,
       sir, if you are a detective, you need not begin protecting me against
       molestation by young women until I ask you. Anybody could see that the
       girl meant no harm.

       THE BYSTANDERS GENERALLY [demonstrating against police espionage]
       Course they could. What business is it of yours? You mind your own
       affairs. He wants promotion, he does. Taking down people's words! Girl
       never said a word to him. What harm if she did? Nice thing a girl can't
       shelter from the rain without being insulted, etc., etc., etc. [She is
       conducted by the more sympathetic demonstrators back to her plinth,
       where she resumes her seat and struggles with her emotion].

       THE BYSTANDER. He ain't a tec. He's a blooming busybody: that's what he
       is. I tell you, look at his boots.

       THE NOTE TAKER [turning on him genially] And how are all your people
       down at Selsey?

       THE BYSTANDER [suspiciously] Who told you my people come from Selsey?

       THE NOTE TAKER. Never you mind. They did. [To the girl] How do you come
       to be up so far east? You were born in Lisson Grove.

       THE FLOWER GIRL [appalled] Oh, what harm is there in my leaving Lisson
       Grove? It wasn't fit for a pig to live in; and I had to pay
       four-and-six a week. [In tears] Oh, boo--hoo--oo--

       THE NOTE TAKER. Live where you like; but stop that noise.

       THE GENTLEMAN [to the girl] Come, come! he can't touch you: you have a
       right to live where you please.

       A SARCASTIC BYSTANDER [thrusting himself between the note taker and the
       gentleman] Park Lane, for instance. I'd like to go into the Housing
       Question with you, I would.

       THE FLOWER GIRL [subsiding into a brooding melancholy over her basket,
       and talking very low-spiritedly to herself] I'm a good girl, I am.

       THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER [not attending to her] Do you know where _I_
       come from?

       THE NOTE TAKER [promptly] Hoxton.

       Titterings. Popular interest in the note taker's performance increases.

       THE SARCASTIC ONE [amazed] Well, who said I didn't? Bly me! You know
       everything, you do.

       THE FLOWER GIRL [still nursing her sense of injury] Ain't no call to
       meddle with me, he ain't.

       THE BYSTANDER [to her] Of course he ain't. Don't you stand it from him.
       [To the note taker] See here: what call have you to know about people
       what never offered to meddle with you? Where's your warrant?

       SEVERAL BYSTANDERS [encouraged by this seeming point of law] Yes:
       where's your warrant?

       THE FLOWER GIRL. Let him say what he likes. I don't want to have no
       truck with him.

       THE BYSTANDER. You take us for dirt under your feet, don't you? Catch
       you taking liberties with a gentleman!

       THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. Yes: tell HIM where he come from if you want
       to go fortune-telling.

       THE NOTE TAKER. Cheltenham, Harrow, Cambridge, and India.

       THE GENTLEMAN. Quite right. [Great laughter. Reaction in the note
       taker's favor. Exclamations of He knows all about it. Told him proper.
       Hear him tell the toff where he come from? etc.]. May I ask, sir, do
       you do this for your living at a music hall?

       THE NOTE TAKER. I've thought of that. Perhaps I shall some day.

       The rain has stopped; and the persons on the outside of the crowd begin
       to drop off.

       THE FLOWER GIRL [resenting the reaction] He's no gentleman, he ain't,
       to interfere with a poor girl.

       THE DAUGHTER [out of patience, pushing her way rudely to the front and
       displacing the gentleman, who politely retires to the other side of the
       pillar] What on earth is Freddy doing? I shall get pneumonia if I stay
       in this draught any longer.

       THE NOTE TAKER [to himself, hastily making a note of her pronunciation
       of "monia"] Earlscourt.

       THE DAUGHTER [violently] Will you please keep your impertinent remarks
       to yourself?

       THE NOTE TAKER. Did I say that out loud? I didn't mean to. I beg your
       pardon. Your mother's Epsom, unmistakeably.

       THE MOTHER [advancing between her daughter and the note taker] How very
       curious! I was brought up in Largelady Park, near Epsom.

       THE NOTE TAKER [uproariously amused] Ha! ha! What a devil of a name!
       Excuse me. [To the daughter] You want a cab, do you?

       THE DAUGHTER. Don't dare speak to me.

       THE MOTHER. Oh, please, please Clara. [Her daughter repudiates her with
       an angry shrug and retires haughtily.] We should be so grateful to you,
       sir, if you found us a cab. [The note taker produces a whistle]. Oh,
       thank you. [She joins her daughter]. The note taker blows a piercing
       blast.

       THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. There! I knowed he was a plain-clothes copper.

       THE BYSTANDER. That ain't a police whistle: that's a sporting whistle.

       THE FLOWER GIRL [still preoccupied with her wounded feelings] He's no
       right to take away my character. My character is the same to me as any
       lady's.

       THE NOTE TAKER. I don't know whether you've noticed it; but the rain
       stopped about two minutes ago.

       THE BYSTANDER. So it has. Why didn't you say so before? and us losing
       our time listening to your silliness. [He walks off towards the Strand].

       THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER. I can tell where you come from. You come from
       Anwell. Go back there.

       THE NOTE TAKER [helpfully] _H_anwell.

       THE SARCASTIC BYSTANDER [affecting great distinction of speech] Thenk
       you, teacher. Haw haw! So long [he touches his hat with mock respect
       and strolls off].

       THE FLOWER GIRL. Frightening people like that! How would he like it
       himself.

       THE MOTHER. It's quite fine now, Clara. We can walk to a motor bus.
       Come. [She gathers her skirts above her ankles and hurries off towards
       the Strand].

       THE DAUGHTER. But the cab--[her mother is out of hearing]. Oh, how
       tiresome! [She follows angrily].

       All the rest have gone except the note taker, the gentleman, and the
       flower girl, who sits arranging her basket, and still pitying herself
       in murmurs.

       THE FLOWER GIRL. Poor girl! Hard enough for her to live without being
       worrited and chivied.

       THE GENTLEMAN [returning to his former place on the note taker's left]
       How do you do it, if I may ask?

       THE NOTE TAKER. Simply phonetics. The science of speech. That's my
       profession; also my hobby. Happy is the man who can make a living by
       his hobby! You can spot an Irishman or a Yorkshireman by his brogue. I
       can place any man within six miles. I can place him within two miles in
       London. Sometimes within two streets.

       THE FLOWER GIRL. Ought to be ashamed of himself, unmanly coward!

       THE GENTLEMAN. But is there a living in that?

       THE NOTE TAKER. Oh yes. Quite a fat one. This is an age of upstarts.
       Men begin in Kentish Town with 80 pounds a year, and end in Park Lane
       with a hundred thousand. They want to drop Kentish Town; but they give
       themselves away every time they open their mouths. Now I can teach
       them--

       THE FLOWER GIRL. Let him mind his own business and leave a poor girl--

       THE NOTE TAKER [explosively] Woman: cease this detestable boohooing
       instantly; or else seek the shelter of some other place of worship.

       THE FLOWER GIRL [with feeble defiance] I've a right to be here if I
       like, same as you.

       THE NOTE TAKER. A woman who utters such depressing and disgusting
       sounds has no right to be anywhere--no right to live. Remember that you
       are a human being with a soul and the divine gift of articulate speech:
       that your native language is the language of Shakespear and Milton and
       The Bible; and don't sit there crooning like a bilious pigeon.

       THE FLOWER GIRL [quite overwhelmed, and looking up at him in mingled
       wonder and deprecation without daring to raise her head]
       Ah--ah--ah--ow--ow--oo!

       THE NOTE TAKER [whipping out his book] Heavens! what a sound! [He
       writes; then holds out the book and reads, reproducing her vowels
       exactly] Ah--ah--ah--ow--ow--ow--oo!

       THE FLOWER GIRL [tickled by the performance, and laughing in spite of
       herself] Garn!

       THE NOTE TAKER. You see this creature with her kerbstone English: the
       English that will keep her in the gutter to the end of her days. Well,
       sir, in three months I could pass that girl off as a duchess at an
       ambassador's garden party. I could even get her a place as lady's maid
       or shop assistant, which requires better English. That's the sort of
       thing I do for commercial millionaires. And on the profits of it I do
       genuine scientific work in phonetics, and a little as a poet on
       Miltonic lines.

       THE GENTLEMAN. I am myself a student of Indian dialects; and--

       THE NOTE TAKER [eagerly] Are you? Do you know Colonel Pickering, the
       author of Spoken Sanscrit?

       THE GENTLEMAN. I am Colonel Pickering. Who are you?

       THE NOTE TAKER. Henry Higgins, author of Higgins's Universal Alphabet.

       PICKERING [with enthusiasm] I came from India to meet you.

       HIGGINS. I was going to India to meet you.

       PICKERING. Where do you live?

       HIGGINS. 27A Wimpole Street. Come and see me tomorrow.

       PICKERING. I'm at the Carlton. Come with me now and let's have a jaw
       over some supper.

       HIGGINS. Right you are.

       THE FLOWER GIRL [to Pickering, as he passes her] Buy a flower, kind
       gentleman. I'm short for my lodging.

       PICKERING. I really haven't any change. I'm sorry [he goes away].

       HIGGINS [shocked at girl's mendacity] Liar. You said you could change
       half-a-crown.

       THE FLOWER GIRL [rising in desperation] You ought to be stuffed with
       nails, you ought. [Flinging the basket at his feet] Take the whole
       blooming basket for sixpence.

       The church clock strikes the second quarter.

       HIGGINS [hearing in it the voice of God, rebuking him for his Pharisaic
       want of charity to the poor girl] A reminder. [He raises his hat
       solemnly; then throws a handful of money into the basket and follows
       Pickering].

       THE FLOWER GIRL [picking up a half-crown] Ah--ow--ooh! [Picking up a
       couple of florins] Aaah--ow--ooh! [Picking up several coins]
       Aaaaaah--ow--ooh! [Picking up a half-sovereign]
       Aasaaaaaaaaah--ow--ooh!!!

       FREDDY [springing out of a taxicab] Got one at last. Hallo! [To the
       girl] Where are the two ladies that were here?

       THE FLOWER GIRL. They walked to the bus when the rain stopped.

       FREDDY. And left me with a cab on my hands. Damnation!

       THE FLOWER GIRL [with grandeur] Never you mind, young man. I'm going
       home in a taxi. [She sails off to the cab. The driver puts his hand
       behind him and holds the door firmly shut against her. Quite
       understanding his mistrust, she shows him her handful of money].
       Eightpence ain't no object to me, Charlie. [He grins and opens the
       door]. Angel Court, Drury Lane, round the corner of Micklejohn's oil
       shop. Let's see how fast you can make her hop it. [She gets in and
       pulls the door to with a slam as the taxicab starts].

       FREDDY. Well, I'm dashed!

 The act begins at a quarter past eleven at night in London during a heavy downpour of summer rain. A group of people seeks shelter under the portico of St. Paul's Church, Covent Garden. Among them are a lady and her daughter in evening attire and a man who is preoccupied with taking notes. The lady and her daughter are irritably waiting for Freddy to fetch them a cab. A bystander remarks about the impossibility of getting a cab until half past eleven since the cabbies will only return after dropping off their theatre fares. This serves to further aggravate the lady and her daughter Clara, who dismiss Freddy as a worthless fellow who could not get even get them a cab at the theatre door itself. As the mother defends Freddy, he rushes in and declares that he has been to Charing Cross and nearly to Ludgate Circus but a cab is not to be had for "love or money." Clara accuses him of not having tried at all since he has not been to Trafalgar Square. The mother and daughter force the reluctant Freddy to go and try again and not to return without a cab. As he opens his umbrella and dashes off, there is a flash of lightening and he collides with a flower girl who is hurrying in for shelter. He knocks her basket out of her hands and the flower girl remarks in Cockney, "Now then, Freddy: look where you are going dear." Freddy apologizes and rushes off, somewhat scandalized that she knew his name. As she picks up her scattered flowers the flower girl remarks on his offensive manners. A strikingly unromantic figure, she sits down on the plinth of the column and sorts out her flowers. She is eighteen or perhaps twenty but not older. Her clothes are coarse and grimy. The lady's curiosity to find out how the flower girl knew Freddy's name gets the better of her and she gives the flower girl six pence to compensate for her damaged flowers. But her generosity is futile since it turns out that the flower girl had merely addressed the lady's son as Freddy when he collided with her because Freddy and Charlie were popular names. Clara is quite disgusted by her mother's suspicions regarding Freddy and retreats behind a pillar. Just then an elderly gentleman rushes into the shelter, closing a dripping umbrella. Seeing that the rain is unlikely to stop, the lady sadly joins Clara behind the pillar. The flower girl attempts to ingratiate herself to the military gentleman and coaxes him to buy a flower. The gentleman apologizes and says that he has no change. But as the flower girl is persistent in her pleas, the gentleman fumbles in his pockets and finding three pence, gives it to her and retreats to the other pillar. Although the flower girl is disappointed she consoles herself with the thought that three pence is better than nothing at all. At this point a bystander warns the flower girl that she had better give the gentleman a flower in return since there is a person who is taking down every word she speaks. This turns everybody's attention towards a man who is busily taking down notes. The flower girl is terrified and protests her innocence. There is a general hubbub in favor of the flower girl. The flower girl is quite frantic and appeals to the military gentleman to help her. In the meanwhile the note taker steps forward and assures the flower girl that he is not going to harm her. The bystander also attempts to calm the flower girl by telling her that the note taker appears to be a gentleman by his boots and not a "copper's nark", i.e. a police informant. The note taker's interest is piqued by the phrase "copper's nark" and he asks the bystander to explain it. The flower girl, however, protests her innocence. The note taker tries to reassure her in a light manner but her fears are far from dispelled. She demands to see what he has written about her. The note taker opens his book and holds it steadily under her nose. The flower girl however is unable to make any sense of it since the notes are in phonetic script. The note taker reads out a sentence reproducing the flower girl's cockney accent perfectly. The flower girl appeals to the military gentleman for help, who in turn tells the note taker to mind his own business. All the bystanders also join in the general condemnation of police espionage. The note taker then proceeds to display his knowledge and correctly guesses that the bystander is from Selsey and the flower girl form Lisson Grove. The popular interest in the note taker's performance increases as he continues to accurately gauge the origins of people from their speech patterns. For instance he correctly deduces that the military gentleman is from Cheltenham, Harrow, Cambridge and India. The general public opinion turns in favor of the note taker. Meanwhile the downpour subsides and the crowd begins to disperse. Impatient at Freddy's inability to procure a cab, Clara declares that she shall surely get "pneumonia" if she stays in this draught any longer. The note taker makes a note of the pronunciation of "mownia" and remarks that she is from Earls Court and her mother is unmistakably from Epsom. The lady confirms that she was indeed brought up in Largelady Park near Epsom and requests him to find them a cab. He blows a shrill whistle to summon one and this provokes some discussion that the note taker is indeed a policeman. The note taker irritably reminds the bystanders that the rain had stopped about two minutes ago and that they should leave. The lady and her daughter decide to take the bus since the rain has stopped. Soon the note taker is left alone with the military gentleman and the flower girl. On being asked the secret of how he makes his deductions the note taker explains that he is a phonetician by profession and can place any man in London within two miles. He claims that he can teach anybody any dialect, including how to speak correctly. The flower girl is still crying out aloud about the imagined harm to her respectability. The note taker irritably denounces her as an "incarnate insult to the English language". He declares that he could transform the flower girl with her Cockney accent into a duchess within three months, that he could even get her a place as a lady's maid/ shop assistant. The military gentleman turns out to be Colonel Pickering, the author of Spoken Sanskrit, and the note taker introduces himself as Henry Higgins, the author of Higgins' Universal Alphabet. The two men know each other by repute and strike up an acquaintance. As they leave together, there is the sound of church bells and Higgins throws a handful of money into the flower girl's basket who is delighted by her unexpected fortune. Freddy then arrives with a cab only to find that his mother and sister have taken a bus instead. The flower girl grandly declares that she is going home in the cab. When the driver refuses to let her in she shows him a handful of her money to assure him that she can pay the fare. She tells him to drive her to Buckingham Palace. As soon as they are out of Freddy's earshot she tells the cabbie to drive her home to Angel Court, Drury Lane, next to her Uncle John's oil shop. On reaching her destination the flower girl is appalled that the fare is a shilling for only two minutes. The cabbie condescendingly forgoes the fare. The act draws to a close in the flower girl's small room with the barest minimum of necessities. Eliza is excitedly counting her new riches and planning what to do with them until the gas goes out. She then enjoys being able to put in another penny without begrudging it. She decides to go to bed since it would be more economical than sitting up without a fire.

