"Apologies are hateful," said Lady Derl. "They're so final. To see a fine young quarrel, in the prime of life, die by lightning—sad! sad!" She started drawing off her gloves. "Let's have tea." As she poured tea for them she asked, "And what's the real reason you two aren't coming to my dinner?"
Leighton picked up the maimed kid and laid it on the tea-tray. He nodded toward Lewis.
"He made it, I'm going to gamble a bit on him."
"Poor little thing!" said Lady Derl, poking the two-legged kid with her finger.
"I'm going to put him under Le Brux,—Saint Anthony,—if he'll take him," continued Leighton. "We leave for Paris to-morrow."
"Under Saint Anthony?" repeated Lady Derl. "H—m—m! Perhaps you are right. But Blanche, Berthe, and Vi will hold it against me."
When Lewis was alone with his father, he asked: "Does Lady Derl belong to the Old Guard?"
"You wouldn't think it, but she does," said Leighton,—"inside."
CHAPTER XIX
"My boy," said Leighton to Lewis two days later, as they were threading a narrow street in the shadow of Montmartre, "you will meet in a few moments Le Brux, the only living sculptor. You will call him Maître from the start. If he cuffs you or swears at you, call him Mon Matre. That's all the French you will need for some months."