"Somebody," he continued, "that will carry on the mighty tradition of Le
Brux. I could take a pupil to any one of a lot of whipper-snappers that
fondle clay, but _my son_ I bring to you. Why? Because you are the
greatest living sculptor? No. No great sculptor ever made another. If my
boy's to be a sculptor, the only way you could stop him would be to
choke him to death."

"I hadn't thought of that," broke in Le Brux, with a look of relief. "If
he bothers me, eh? It would be easy."

In a flash Leighton was all smiles.

"So," he said, "it is settled. Lewis you stay here. If he throws you
out, come back again."

"Eh! eh!" cried Le Brux, "not so fast. Listen. This is the most I can
do. I'll let him stay here. I'll give him the room down the hall that I
rent to keep any one else out, and--and--I'll use him for a model."

Leighton shrugged his shoulders.

"So, let it be so," he said. "The boy will make his own way into your
big, hollow heart, and use it for a playroom. But just remember,
_Matre_, that he is a boy--_my_ boy. If he is to go in for all
this,"--Leighton waved his hand at the casts,--"I want him to start in
with a man who sees art and art only, a man who didn't turn beast the
first time he realized God didn't create woman with petticoats."

Le Brux's eyes bulged with comprehension. He thumped his resounding
chest.