"A pupil, eh? Bah!" With his thumb and forefinger he crushed the kid to
powder. "I'll take no pupil."

Lewis gulped in dismay at seeing his kid demolished, but not so
Leighton. He had noted the glint of interest. He turned on Le Brux.

"You'll take no pupil, eh? All right, don't. But you'll take my son. You
shall and you will."

"I will not," growled Le Brux.

"_Maître"_ began Leighton--"but whom am I calling _Matre_? What are
you? D'you know what you are?" He shook his finger in Le Brux's face.
"You think you're a creator, but you're not. You're nothing but a
palimpsest, the record of a single age. What are your works but one
man's thumb-print on the face of time? Here I am giving you a chance to
_be_ a creator, to breed a live human that will carry on the torch--that
will--"

Le Brux had seated himself heavily on the couch. He held his massive
head between his hands and groaned.

"Ah, Létonne," he interrupted, "our old friendship is dead--dead by
violence. Friends have said things to me before,--called me names,--and
I have stood it. But none of them ever dared call me a palimpsest. Thou
hast called me a palimpsest!"

Leighton seemed not to hear.