He was not a nice old man. His skin was white, the dead white of an onion, and the girl noted that flies swarmed round and round him. They settled on his blouse and walked over his beard but he took no notice of them. He seemed to attract flies as carrion attracts them. He gave the girl a contemptuous look.
“Well, what d’ye think of my picture?”
“It’s very pretty, sir.”
“Pretty be damned. Never tell an artist his work’s pretty.”
The girl was turning away when his voice arrested her.
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Why? Haven’t you got a home?”
“No, sir.”
He turned round and looked at her hard. He seemed to reflect.