142 The Light That Failed The girl obeyed, and Dick watched her face keenly, — so keenly that she made as if to hide behind Torpenhow. “The eyes have it,” said Dick, walking up and down. “They are superb eyes for my business. And, after all, every head depends on the eyes. This has been sent from heaven to make up for — what was taken away. Now the weekly strain’s off my shoulders, I can get to work in earnest. Evidently sent from heaven. Yes. Raise your chin a little, please.” “Gently, old man, gently. You’re scaring somebody out of her wits,” said Torpenhow, who could see the girl trembling. “Don’t let him hit me! Oh, please don’t let him hit me! I’ve been hit cruel today because I spoke to a man. Don’t let him look at me like that! He’s reg’lar wicked, that one. Don’t let him look at me like that, neither! Oh, I feel as if I hadn’t nothing on when he looks at me like that!” The overstrained nerves in the frail body gave way, and the girl wept like a little child and began to scream. Dick threw open the window, and Torpenhow flung the door back. “There you are,” said Dick, soothingly. “My friend here can call for a policeman, and you can run through that door. Nobody is going to hurt you.” The girl sobbed convulsively for a few minutes, and then tried to laugh. “Nothing in the world to hurt you. Now listen to me for a minute. I’m what they call an artist by profession. You know what artists do?” “They draw the things in red and black ink on the pop-shop labels.” “I dare say. I haven’t risen to pop-shop labels yet. Those are done by the Academicians. I want to draw your head.”