"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.
"Somebody," he continued, "that will carry on the mighty tradition of Le Brux. I could take a pupil to any one of a lot of whipper-snappers that fondle clay, but my son I bring to you. Why? Because you are the greatest living sculptor? No. No great sculptor ever made another. If my boy's to be a sculptor, the only way you could stop him would be to choke him to death."
"I hadn't thought of that," broke in Le Brux, with a look of relief. "If he bothers me, eh? It would be easy."
In a flash Leighton was all smiles.
"So," he said, "it is settled. Lewis you stay here. If he throws you out, come back again."
"Eh! eh!" cried Le Brux, "not so fast. Listen. This is the most I can do. I'll let him stay here. I'll give him the room down the hall that I rent to keep any one else out, and—and—I'll use him for a model."
Leighton shrugged his shoulders.
"So, let it be so," he said. "The boy will make his own way into your big, hollow heart, and use it for a playroom. But just remember, Matre, that he is a boy—my boy. If he is to go in for all this,"—Leighton waved his hand at the casts,—"I want him to start in with a man who sees art and art only, a man who didn't turn beast the first time he realized God didn't create woman with petticoats."
Le Brux's eyes bulged with comprehension. He thumped his resounding chest.