Pygmalion HTML version
The Wimpole Street laboratory. Midnight. Nobody in the room. The clock on the
mantelpiece strikes twelve. The fire is not alight: it is a summer night.
Presently Higgins and Pickering are heard on the stairs.
HIGGINS [calling down to Pickering] I say, Pick: lock up, will you. I shan't be going out
PICKERING. Right. Can Mrs. Pearce go to bed? We don't want anything more, do we?
HIGGINS. Lord, no!
Eliza opens the door and is seen on the lighted landing in opera cloak, brilliant evening
dress, and diamonds, with fan, flowers, and all accessories. She comes to the hearth, and
switches on the electric lights there. She is tired: her pallor contrasts strongly with her
dark eyes and hair; and her expression is almost tragic. She takes off her cloak; puts her
fan and flowers on the piano; and sits down on the bench, brooding and silent. Higgins, in
evening dress, with overcoat and hat, comes in, carrying a smoking jacket which he has
picked up downstairs. He takes off the hat and overcoat; throws them carelessly on the
newspaper stand; disposes of his coat in the same way; puts on the smoking jacket; and
throws himself wearily into the easy-chair at the hearth. Pickering, similarly attired,
comes in. He also takes off his hat and overcoat, and is about to throw them on Higgins's
when he hesitates.
PICKERING. I say: Mrs. Pearce will row if we leave these things lying about in the
HIGGINS. Oh, chuck them over the bannisters into the hall. She'll find them there in the
morning and put them away all right. She'll think we were drunk.
PICKERING. We are, slightly. Are there any letters?
HIGGINS. I didn't look. [Pickering takes the overcoats and hats and goes down stairs.
Higgins begins half singing half yawning an air from La Fanciulla del Golden West.
Suddenly he stops and exclaims] I wonder where the devil my slippers are!
Eliza looks at him darkly; then leaves the room.
Higgins yawns again, and resumes his song. Pickering returns, with the contents of the
letter-box in his hand.
PICKERING. Only circulars, and this coroneted billet-doux for you. [He throws the
circulars into the fender, and posts himself on the hearthrug, with his back to the grate].