"Just one more word," continued his father. "When you do get down to
working with your hands, don't forget repression. Classicism bears the
relation to art that religion does to the world's progress. It's a
drag-anchor--a sound measure of safety--despised when seas are calm, but
treasured against the hour of stress. Let's go and eat."

Lewis rose and put his hand on his father's arm.

"I'll not forget this talk, Dad," he said.

"I hope you won't, boy," said Leighton. "It's harder for me to talk to
you than you think. I'm driven and held by the knowledge that there are
only two ways in which a father can lose his son. One is by talking too
much, the other's by not talking enough. The old trouble of the devil
and the deep, blue sea; the frying-pan and the fire. Come, we've been
bandying the sublime; let's get down to the level of stomachs and smile.
The greatest thing about man is the range of his octaves."




CHAPTER XXVIII


For a week Lewis missed his father very much. Every time he came into
the flat its emptiness struck him, robbed him of gaiety, and made him
feel as though he walked in a dead man's shoes. He was very lonely.

"Helton," he said one night, "I wish things could talk--these old chairs