Rudyard Kipling 14 Bessie made no answer whatever. This, she knew, was the way in which real ladies routed their foes, and when one is a barmaid at a first-class public-house one may become a real lady at ten minutes’ notice. Her eyes fell on Dick opposite her and she was both shocked and displeased. There were droppings of food all down the front of his coat; the mouth under the ragged ill-grown beard drooped sullenly; the forehead was lined and contracted; and on the lean temples the hair was a dusty indeterminate color that might or might not have been called gray. The utter misery and self-abandonment of the man appealed to her, and at the bottom of her heart lay the wicked feeling that he was humbled and brought low who had once humbled her. “Oh! it zs good to hear you moving about,” said Dick, rubbing his hands. “Tell us all about your bar successes, Bessie, and the way you live now.” “Never mind that. ’'m quite respectable, as you'd see by looking at me. You don’t seem to live too well. What made you go blind that sudden? Why isn’t there any one to look after you?” Dick was too thankful for the sound of her voice to resent the tone of it. “I was cut across the head a long time ago, and that ruined my eyes. I don’t suppose anybody thinks it worth while to look after me any more. Why should they? — and Mr. Beeton really does everything I want.” “Don’t you know any gentlemen and ladies, then, while you was — well?” “A few, but I don’t care to have them looking at me.” “I suppose that’s why you’ve growed a beard. Take it off, it don’t become you.” “Good gracious, child, do you imagine that I think of what becomes of me these days?” “You ought. Get that taken off before I come here