Lewis was surprised to find that his father was not looking at the scene.  Leighton was bending over such a dial as no other spot on earth could boast.  Its radiating spokes of varying lengths pointed to a hundred places, almost within the range of sight—­names famous in song and story, in peace and in war.  Leighton read them out, name after name.  He glanced at Lewis’s puzzled face.

“They mean nothing to you?” he asked.

Lewis shook his head.

“So you’re not quite educated, after all,” said Leighton.

They descended almost at a run to the gardens behind the Schloss.  As they reached them a long string of carriages drove up from the town.  They were full of tourists, many of whom wore the enameled flag of the United States in their buttonholes.  Some of the women carried little red, white, and blue silk flags.

Lewis saw his father wince.

“Dad,” he asked, “are they Americans?”

“Yes, boy,” said Leighton.  “Do you remember what I told you about the evanescent spirit in art?”

Lewis nodded.

“Well,” said Leighton, “a beloved flag has an evanescent spirit, too.  One shouldn’t finger carelessly the image one would adore.  That’s why I winced just now.  Collectively, we Americans have never lowered the Stars and Stripes, but individually we do it pretty often.”  Then he threw up his head and smiled.  “After all, there’s a bright side even to blatant patriotism.  A nation can put up with every form of devotion so long as it gets it from all.”

“But, Dad,” said Lewis, “I thought all American women were beautiful.”

“So they are,” said Leighton, with a laugh.  “When you stop believing that, you stop being an American.  All American women are beautiful—­some outside, and the rest inside.”

“Why don’t you take me to the States?” asked Lewis.

Leighton turned around.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty,” said Lewis.

“I’ll take you,” said Leighton, “when you are old enough to see the States.  It takes a certain amount of philosophy nowadays to understand your country—­and mine.  Of all the nations in the world, we Americans see ourselves least as others see us.  We have a national vanity that keeps us from studying a looking-glass.  That’s a paradox,” said Leighton, smiling at Lewis’s puzzled look.  “A paradox,” he continued, “is a verity the unpleasant truth of which is veiled.”

“Anyway, I should like to go to the States,” said Lewis.

“Just now,” said Leighton, “our country is traveling the universal road of commercialism, but it’s traveling fast.  When it gets to the end of the road, it will be an interesting country.”

CHAPTER XXV

Three years later, with the approval of Le Brux, Lewis exhibited the “Startled Woman.”  He did not name it.  It named itself.  There was no single remarkable trait in the handling of the life-size nude figure beyond its triumph as a whole—­its sure impression of alarm.