Leighton came to Paris for his son’s debut.  When he saw the statue, he said: 

“It is not great.  You are not old enough for that.  But it will be a success, probably a sensation.  What else have you done?”

All the modeling that Lewis had accumulated in the three years of his apprenticeship was passed in review.  Leighton scarcely looked at the casts.  He kept his eyes on Le Brux’s face and measured his changing expression.

“Is that all?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Lewis.

“Well,” said Leighton, “I suggest we destroy the lot.  What do you say, Le Brux?”

Le Brux raised his bushy eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders, and threw out his hands.

“Eh,” he grunted, “it is for the boy to say.  Has he the courage?  They are his offspring.”

The two men stood and looked at Lewis.  His eyes passed from them to his work and back again to Leighton’s face.

“You are my father,” he said.

“Come on,” cried Leighton, without a moment’s hesitation, “let us all join in the slaughter.  Just remember, boy, that it’s no more cruel to kill your young than to sell them into slavery.”

Three days later all of Paris that counts was talking of the “Startled Woman.”  The name of Leighton fils was in many mouths and in almost as many printed paragraphs.

“Leighton fils!” cried Lewis.  Why fils?”

“Paris has a long memory for art, my boy,” said Leighton.  “Before I learned that I could never reach the heights, I raised a small monument on a foot-hill.  They haven’t forgotten it, these critics who never die.”

Lewis was assailed by dealers.  They offered him prices that seemed to him fabulous.  But Leighton listened calmly and said, “Wait.”  The longer they waited, the higher climbed the rival dealers.  At last came an official envelop.  “Ah,” said Leighton, before Lewis had opened it, “it has come.”

It was an offer from the state.  It was lower than the least of the dealers’ bids.  “That’s the prize offer, boy,” said Leighton.  “Take it.”

They went back to London together.  Leighton helped Lewis search for a studio.  They examined many places, pleasant and unpleasant.  Finally Lewis settled on a great, bare, loft-like room within a few minutes’ walk of the flat.  “This will do,” he said.

“Why?” asked Leighton.

“Space,” said Lewis.  “Le Brux taught me that.  One must have space to see big.”

While they were still busy fitting up the atelier a note came to Lewis from Lady Derl.  She told him to come and see her at once, to bring all his clippings on the “Startled Woman,” and a photograph that would do the lady more justice than had the newspaper prints.

When Lewis entered Lady Derl’s room of light, it seemed to him that he had not been away from London for a day.  The room was unchanged.  Lady Derl was unchanged.  She did not rise.  She held out her hand, and Lewis raised her fingers to his lips.