Without a word, Barbara stepped eagerly forward to the rough model that she had made of his head, and once more attacked her inspiration with eager hands.  The beggar held himself motionless like a thing of stone, only his eyes roved a little, drinking in, you may say, that white loveliness which was Barbara at such moments as her own eyes were upon her work, and turning swiftly away when she lifted them in scrutiny of him.  Now and then she made measurements of him with a pair of compasses.  At such times it seemed to him that her nearness was more than his unschooled passions could bear with any appearance of apathy.  Though a child of the nineteenth century, he had been enabled for many years to give way, almost whenever he pleased, to the instincts of primitive man, which, except for the greater frequency of their occurrence, differ in no essential way from the instincts of wild beasts.

Had she been a girl of the East Side he would not have hesitated upon the present occasion or in the present surroundings.  But she was a girl of wealth and high position.  It was not enough that his hands could stifle an outcry, or that the policeman upon the nearest beat was more in his own employ than in that of the city.  Cold reason showed him that in the present case impunity was for once doubtful.

Her hands dropped from their work to her sides.

“How goes it?” asked the beggar.

“If it goes as it’s gone,” she said—­“if it only does!”

“It will,” said the beggar, and there was a strong vibration of faith and encouragement in his voice.  “May I look?”

“Of course.”

He came down from the platform, and she could not but admire the almost superhuman facility with which he moved upon his crutches.  Halting at ease, before the beginning which she had made, he remained for a long time silent.  Then, turning to her, he freed his right hand from the cross-piece of his crutch, and lifted it to his forehead in a sort of salute.

“Master!” he said.

The blood in Barbara’s veins tingled with pleasure.  He had thrown into his strong, rich voice an added wealth of sincerity, and she knew, or thought she knew, that at last the work of her hands had moved another, who, whatever else he might have been, was by his own showing no fool, but a man having in him much that was extraordinary.  And she felt a sudden friendliness for the legless beggar.

His eyes still upon the clay—­knowing, considering, measuring, appraising eyes—­he said shortly and with decision:  “We must go on with this.”

“To-morrow—­could you come to-morrow at the same time?”

“I will,” he said.

“Good.  Are you hungry?”

But the legless man did not appear to have heard her.  A sound in the adjoining room had arrested his attention.  He listened to it critically and then smiled.

“A good workman,” he said, “is turning a screw into wood.”