Leighton sprang to his feet. "God! Poster lithographs at two and six!
Boy, Lalan's 'Triumph' _was_ a triumph once. He turned it into a mere
success. Before the paint was dry, he let them commercialize his
picture, not in sturdy, faithful prints, but in that--that rubbish."

Leighton strode up and down the room, his arms behind him, his eyes on
the floor.

"Taking art into the poor man's home, they call it. Bah! If you multiply
the greatest glory that the genius of man ever imprisoned, and put it
all over the walls of your house,--bath, kitchen and under the
bed,--you'll find the mean level of that glory is reduced to the terms
of the humblest of household utensils."

A smile nickered in Lewis's eyes, but Leighton did not look up.

"Art is never a constant," he continued. "It feeds on spirit, and spirit
is evanescent. A truly great picture should be seen by the comparative
few. What every one possesses is necessarily a commonplace.

"And now, to get back. I have never talked seriously to you before; I
may never do it again. The essence, the distinctive finesse, of
breeding, lies in a trained gaiety and an implied sincerity. But what I
must say to you is this: Even in this leveling age there are a few of us
who look with terror upon an incipient socialism; who believe money as
money to be despicable and food and clothing, incidental; who abhor
equality, cherish sorrow and suffering and look uponeducation--knowledge
of living before God and man--as the ultimate and only source of
content. That's a creed. I'd like to have you think on it. I'd like to
have my boy join the Old Guard. Do you begin to see how success in art