‘Ah! making conversation, as it were. Yes; you’re gentry now, of course—joined the respectable classes.’ He fumbled Prosser’s coat as he spoke, feeling round the cloth buttons to see if they were sound and fat. ‘One has to talk for talking’s sake when one belongs to the gentry. Well, I’m off. Don’t waste your elegant conversation on me; go back to the Duchess.... Pity the poor blind!’ He was off again, crying hoarsely along the big grey blocks, and Prosser pursuing timidly.
‘Stop, stop, Mr. Hartopp! You didn’t mind my mentioning the little girl?’
‘Pity the poor blind!’
His appeal to the public was launched with an abrupt intonation which implied a final ‘D—— you!’ as plain as words.
‘It’s my little girl after all,’ said Prosser.
‘Don’t talk like a d——d drunken maudlin fool!’ growled the blind man, stopping short again. People looked over their shoulders as they went past, ladies from the Stores drew aside into the road and hurried by, seeing this maimed old man leaning back over his extended crutch, blaspheming at the trim underling who stood so mild and weak behind him.
‘I know your sort! rotten gutless puppies that lose their grit as soon as they get under. Portland; good conduct marks; conversion; piety; ticket-of-leave, and then drink, drink, drink! “Gone into service!” “My little girl!” Ugh! What do you want to do with your “little girl”? Would you like the little pet to “go into service” too? and wear a little muslin pinafore, with pockets in front? Speak up, man, speak up. Don’t stand there like a sodden hog, dreaming over your next big drink while I’m making conversation. Don’t you hear me, you elegant toff?’
Prosser started guiltily.
‘I’d been thinking perhaps my employer would find her a nice home somewhere.’
‘A little cottage in the country somewhere, eh? with geraniums in the window and a little watering pot all her own, eh? And what about me? I’d make a pretty footman if you’d recommend me, and stand on the steps in a salmon-coloured suit and help the gentlefolk in and out of their carriages.’