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.

“Me!” he cried—­“me, a wet nurse!” He yanked open another button of his smock.  “Behold me!  Have I the attributes?”

Leighton turned his back on him.

“Now you are ranting,” he said.  He picked up an old newspaper from the floor and started to wrap up the cast he had bought.  “Now listen, Maitre.  Go and dress yourself for a change.  The boy and I will spend a few hours looking for a fiacre that will stand the weight.  Then we’ll come back, and I’ll take you out for a drive to a place where you can remind yourself what a tree looks like.  I’ll also give you a dinner that you couldn’t order in an hour with Careme holding your hand.”

“Ah, mon enfant,” sighed Le Brux, folding his hands across his stomach, “thou hast struck me below the belt.  Thou knowest that my memory is not so short but what I will dine with thee.”

When at seven o’clock the three sat down at a table which, like everything else that came in contact with Le Brux, seemed a size too small, Leighton said to his guest: 

“Maitre, it has been my endeavor to provide to-night a single essence from each of the five great epochs of modern cookery.”

“Yes, my child?” said Le Brux, gravely, but with an expectant gleam in his eye.

“In no branch of science,” continued Leighton, “have progress and innovation been so constantly associated as in gastronomy, and we shall consequently abandon the rule of the savants of the last generation and proceed from the light to the less light and then to the rich.”