220 The Light That Failed cracked teapot as though she had a right to both. “Muffins ready yet?” said Bess, still dusting. She was no longer a drab of the streets but a young lady who, thanks to Dick’s check, had paid her premium and was entitled to pull beer-handles with the best. Being neatly dressed in black she did not hesitate to face Mrs. Beeton, and there passed between the two women certain regards that Dick would have appreciated. The situation adjusted itself by eye. Bessie had won, and Mrs. Beeton returned to cook muffins and make scathing remarks about models, hussies, trollops, and the like, to her husband. “There’s nothing to be got of interfering with him, Liza,” he said. “Alf, you go along into the street to play. When he isn’t crossed he’s as kindly as kind, but when he’s crossed he’s the devil and all. We took too many little things out of his rooms since he was blind to be that particular about what he does. They ain’t no objects to a blind man, of course, but if it was to come into court we'd get the sack. Yes, I did introduce him to that girl because I’m a feelin’ man myself.” “Much too feelin’!” Mrs. Beeton slapped the muffins into the dish, and thought of comely housemaids long since dismissed on suspicion. “I ain’t ashamed of it, and it isn’t for us to judge him hard so long as he pays quiet and regular as he do. I know how to manage young gentlemen, you know how to cook for them, and what I says is, let each stick to his own business and then there won’t be any trouble. Take them muffins down, Liza, and be sure you have no words with that young woman. His lot is cruel hard, and if he’s crossed he do swear worse than any one I’ve ever served.” “That's a little better,” said Bessie, sitting down to the tea. “You needn’t wait, thank you, Mrs. Beeton.” “I had no intention of doing such, I do assure you.”