“Don’t let him hit me! Oh, please don’t let him hit me! I’ve been hit cruel to-day 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.”
“What for?”
“Because it’s pretty. That is why you will come to the room across the landing three times a week at eleven in the morning, and I’ll give you three quid a week just for sitting still and being drawn. And there’s a quid on account.”
“For nothing? Oh, my!” The girl turned the sovereign in her hand, and with more foolish tears, “Ain’t neither o’ you two gentlemen afraid of my bilking you?”