166 The Light That Failed “Exactly.” “Where did you get the mouth and chin from? They don’t belong to Bess.” “They're — some one else’s. But isn’t it good? Isn't it thundering good? Wasn’t it worth the whiskey? I did it. Alone I did it, and it’s the best I can do.” He drew his breath sharply, and whispered, “Just God! what could I not do ten years hence, if I can do this now! — By the way, what do you think of it, Bess?” The girl was biting her lips. She loathed Torpenhow because he had taken no notice of her. “I think it’s just the horridest, beastliest thing I ever saw, she answered, and turned away. “More than you will be of that way of thinking, young woman. — Dick, there’s a sort of murderous, viperine suggestion in the poise of the head that I don’t understand,” said Torpenhow. “That’s trick-work,” said Dick, chuckling with delight at being completely understood. “I couldn’t resist one little bit of sheer swagger. It’s a French trick, and you wouldn’t understand; but it’s got at by slewing round the head a trifle, and a tiny, tiny foreshortening of one side of the face from the angle of the chin to the top of the left ear. That, and deepening the shadow under the lobe of the ear. It was flagrant trick-work; but, having the notion fixed, I felt entitled to play with it, — Oh, you beauty!” “Amen! She is a beauty. I can feel it.” “So will every man who has any sorrow of his own,” said Dick, slapping his thigh. “He shall see his trouble there, and, by the Lord Harry, just when he’s feeling properly sorry for himself he shall throw back his head and laugh, — as she is laughing. I’ve put the life of my heart and the light of my eyes into her, and I don’t care what comes. ... I’m tired, — awfully tired. I think I'll get to sleep. Take away the whiskey, it has served its