"Well," he asked, "what's this?"
Leighton nodded toward Lewis,
"My boy made that."
Le Brux glanced down at his hand. A glint of interest lighted his eyes and passed. Then a tremendous frown darkened his brow.
"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.