“Stop her,” said Dick. “It's Bessie Broke. Tell her I'd like to speak to her again. Quick, man!”
Mr. Beeton crossed the road under the noses of the omnibuses and arrested Bessie then on her way northward. She recognised him as the man in authority who used to glare at her when she passed up Dick's staircase, and her first impulse was to run.
“Wasn't you Mr. Heldar's model?” said Mr. Beeton, planting himself in front of her. “You was. He's on the other side of the road and he'd like to see you.”
“Why?” said Bessie, faintly. She remembered—indeed had never for long forgotten—an affair connected with a newly finished picture.
“Because he has asked me to do so, and because he's most particular blind.”
“Drunk?”
“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?”