“Lunch is served, sir, thank you, sir,” announced the impassive Nelton from the doorway.

Lewis smiled, and then laughed at his father’s face.

“Nelton,” said Leighton, “did you hear what I was saying?”

“I did, sir, thank——­”

“Yes, yes,” broke in Leighton, “we know.  Well, Nelton, your pay is raised.  Ten per cent.”

“Yes, sir,” said Nelton, unmoved.  “Thank you, sir.”

“As I was saying,” continued Leighton to Lewis, “a country where money can’t buy little things.  A leveled country where there’s less under dog than anywhere else on the face of the earth.  A people that’s more communal and less socialistic than any other commonwealth.  A happy nation, my boy—­a happy nation of discontented units.  Do you get that?  Of discontented units.”

“Yes, I think I do,” said Lewis.

“You don’t, but you will in time,” said Leighton.

CHAPTER XLI

WHEN Lewis burst upon Folly with the news that his father had given not only consent to the marriage, but half his income to smooth the way to it, Folly frowned.  What was the game? she wondered.  But the first thing she asked was: 

“And how much is that?”

Lewis stammered, and said really he didn’t know, which made Folly laugh.  Then he told her about the six months and the trip to America.  Whereupon Folly nodded her head and said: 

“Oh, that’s it, is it?  Well, your governor is willing to pay pretty thick for six months of you.  All I want to know is, Will you come back to me?”

“Come back to you, Folly?” cried Lewis, “Of course I’ll come back to you.  Why, that’s just what I’m going for.  To sell the house and fix things so I can come back to you.”

At the same hour Leighton was saying good-by to H lne.  He had not really come to say good-by.  He had come to thank her for her sacrifice, for the things he knew she had said to Lew.  He did not try to thank her in words.  A boyish glance, an awkward movement, a laugh that broke—­these things said more to H lne than words.

“So you’ve got six months’ grace,” said H lne, when Leighton had told her how things stood.  “Glen, do you remember this:  ’All erotic love is a progression.  There is no amatory affection that can stand the strain of a separation of six months in conjunction with six thousand miles.  All the standard tales of grande passion and absence are—­’”

“‘Legendary hypotheses based on a neurotic foundation,’” finished Leighton.  “Yes, I remember that theory of mine.  I’m building on it.”

“I thought you were,” said H lne.  “Don’t build too confidently.  Lew has a strain of constancy in him.  It’s quite unconscious, but it’s there.  Just add my theory to yours.”

“What’s your theory?” asked Leighton.

“My theory,” said H lne, “is that little girl Natalie.  I don’t suppose she’s little now.”