Leighton chose a cigar carefully and lit it.

“Formerly woman had but one mission,” he went on.  “She arrived at it when she arrived at womanhood.  The fashionable age for marriage was fifteen.  Civilization has pushed it along to twenty-five.  Those ten cumulative years have put a terrific strain on woman.  On the whole, she has stood it remarkably well.  But as modernity has reduced our animalism, it has increased our fundamental immorality and put a substantial blot on woman’s mission as a mission.  Woman has had to learn to dissemble charmingly, but in the bottom of her heart she has never believed that her mission is intrinsically shameful.  That’s why every woman feels her special case of sinning is right—­until she gets caught.  Do you follow me?”

“I think so,” said Lewis.

“Well, if you’ve followed me, you begin to realize why a superfluity of women threatens conventional life.  There are an awful lot of women in this town, Lew.”

Leighton rose to his feet and started walking up and down, his hands clasped behind him, his head dropped.

“I haven’t been feeding you on all these generalities just to kill time.  A generality would be worth nothing if it weren’t for its exceptions.  Women are remarkable for the number of their exceptions.  You are crossing a threshold into a peculiarly lax section and age of woman.  I want you to believe and to remember that the world still breeds noble and innocent women.”

Leighton stopped, threw up his head, and fixed Lewis with his eyes.

“Do you know what innocence is?  Ask the average clergyman to describe innocence to you, and when he gets through, think a bit, take off the tinsel words with which he has decked out his graven image, and you’ll find what?  Ignorance enshrined.  Every clergy the world has seen has enshrined ignorance, and ignorance has no single virtue that a sound turnip does not share.”

Leighton stopped and faced his son.

“Now, my boy,” he said, “here comes the end of the sermon.  Beware of the second-best in women.  Many a man trades his soul not for the whole world, but for a bed-fellow.”  He paused.  “I believe,” he continued, flushing, “I still believe that for every man there is an all-embracing woman to whom he is all-embracing.  Thank God!  I’m childish enough to believe in her still, though I speak through soiled lips—­the all-embracing woman who alone can hold you and that you alone can hold.”

Lewis stared absently into the fire.

“‘The worlds of women are seven,’” he repeated, half to himself:  “’spirit, weed, flower, the blind, the visioned, libertine, and saint.  None of these is for thee.  For each child of love there is a woman that holds the seven worlds within a single breast.  Hold fast to thy birthright, even though thou journey with thy back unto the light.’”

“What—­where—­what’s that?” stammered Leighton, staring at his son.