“No. ’Orspital blind. He can’t see. That’s him over there.”
Dick was leaning against the parapet of the bridge as Mr. Beeton pointed him out—a stub-bearded, bowed creature wearing a dirty magenta-coloured neckcloth outside an unbrushed coat. There was nothing to fear from such an one. Even if he chased her, Bessie thought, he could not follow far. She crossed over, and Dick’s face lighted up. It was long since a woman of any kind had taken the trouble to speak to him.
“I hope you’re well, Mr. Heldar?” said Bessie, a little puzzled. Mr. Beeton stood by with the air of an ambassador and breathed responsibly.
“I’m very well indeed, and, by Jove! I’m glad to see—hear you, I mean, Bess. You never thought it worth while to turn up and see us again after you got your money. I don’t know why you should. Are you going anywhere in particular just now?”
“I was going for a walk,” said Bessie.
“Not the old business?” Dick spoke under his breath.
“Lor, no! I paid my premium’—Bessie was very proud of that word—“for a barmaid, sleeping in, and I’m at the bar now quite respectable. Indeed I am.”
Mr. Beeton had no special reason to believe in the loftiness of human nature. Therefore he dissolved himself like a mist and returned to his gas-plugs without a word of apology. Bessie watched the flight with a certain uneasiness; but so long as Dick appeared to be ignorant of the harm that had been done to him...
“It’s hard work pulling the beer-handles,” she went on, “and they’ve got one of them penny-in-the-slot cash-machines, so if you get wrong by a penny at the end of the day—but then I don’t believe the machinery is right. Do you?”
“I’ve only seen it work. Mr. Beeton.”