"Well, Dad," he cried, "what have you got to say now? What has Lady Derl got to say?"
Lewis flung himself into a chair, crossed his arms, and stretched his legs straight out before him. His head hung to one side, and he was so confident of his father's verdict that he was laughing at him out of bright eyes.
Leighton laid his book aside and took his cigar from his mouth. He leaned toward his son, his elbows on his knees.
"Every time I see Miss Delaires," he said slowly, "my opinion of her charms and her accomplishments goes up with a leap."
Lewis nodded, and scarcely refrained from saying, "I told you so."
Leighton's face remained impassive. "She has a much larger repertoire than I thought," he continued; "but there's one rôle she can't play."
"What's that?" asked Lewis.
"Marriage."
"Why?" asked Lewis, his face setting. Then he blurted out: "I might as Well tell you, she says she doesn't believe in marriage. She's too advanced."
"Too advanced!" exclaimed Leighton. "Why, my dear boy, she hasn't advanced an inch from the time the strongest man with the biggest club had a God-given right to the fairest woman in the tribe and exercised it. That was the time for Folly to marry."