I should recommend you
to see an oculist. A little patching and repairing from time to time is all we
want. An oculist, by all means."
Dick sought an oculist,--the best in London. He was certain that the local
practitioner did not know anything about his trade, and more certain that
Maisie would laugh at him if he were forced to wear spectacles.
"I've neglected the warnings of my lord the stomach too long. Hence these spots
before the eyes, Binkie. I can see as well as I ever could."
As he entered the dark hall that led to the consulting-room a man cannoned
against him. Dick saw the face as it hurried out into the street.
"That's the writer-type. He has the same modelling of the forehead as Torp. He
looks very sick. Probably heard something he didn't like."
Even as he thought, a great fear came upon Dick, a fear that made him hold his
breath as he walked into the oculist's waiting room, with the heavy carved
furniture, the dark-green paper, and the sober-hued prints on the wall. He
recognised a reproduction of one of his own sketches.
Many people were waiting their turn before him. His eye was caught by a flaming
red-and-gold Christmas-carol book. Little children came to that eye-doctor, and
they needed large-type amusement.
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