"We'll have to find him first," said Leighton. "Let's look in his room."

Together they walked down the hall. Leighton opened the door without
knocking. He stood transfixed. Le Brux stared over his shoulder. Lewis,
with his back to them, was working feverishly at the wet clay piled on a
board laid across the backs of two chairs. On Lewis's little bed lay
Cellette, front down, her chin in her hand, and reading a book.

"Holy name of ten thousand pigs!" murmured Le Brux.

Lewis turned.

"Why, Dad!" he cried, "I _am_ glad to see you!"

Leighton's heart was in the grip he gave the boy's hand so frankly held
out.

"_Maître_," remarked Cellette from the bed, "believe me if you can: he
is still a babe."

"A babe!" cried Le Brux, catching Lewis with finger and thumb and
lifting him away from the board. "I should say he is. Here!" He caught
up chunks of wet clay and hurled them at Lewis's dainty model of
Cellette. He started molding with sweeps of his thumb. A gigantic, but
graceful, leg began to take form. He turned and caught Lewis again and
shook him till his head rolled. "Big!" he roared, thumping his chest.
"Make it big--like me!"

Leighton returned to London alone.