Leighton did not hesitate.  He threw open the door and walked in.  Except for Vi, curled up in a little heap on the couch, the atelier was very still, vast, somber.  In its center shone a patch of light.  In the patch of light, on a low working pedestal, stood a statue.  On the floor were a tumbled cloth and a fallen screen.  Leighton stood stock-still and stared.

The sculptured figure was that of a woman veiled in draperies that were merely suggested.  Her face, from where Leighton stood, was turned away.  Her right arm was half outstretched, her left hung at her side, but it was peculiarly turned, as though to draw the watcher on.  Then there was the left thigh.  Once the eye fell on that, all else was forgotten.  Into this sinking sweep had gone all the artist’s terrific force of expression and suggestion.  No live man would have thought of the figure as “Woman Leading the Way,” once his eyes had fallen on that thigh.  To such a one the statue named itself with a single flash to the brain, and the name it spoke was “Invitation.”

Leighton’s first impulse was one of unbounded admiration—­the admiration we give to unbounded power.  Then realization and a frown began to come slowly to his face.  Vi, crumpled up on the couch, and sobbing hard, dry sobs,—­the sobs that bring age,—–­helped him to realization.  Lewis, his boy, had done a base thing.

Without moving, Leighton glanced about the room till his eyes fell on the mallet.  Then he stepped quickly to it, picked it up, and crossed to the statue.  Beneath his quick blows the brittle clay fell from the skeleton wires in great, jagged chunks.  With his foot he crushed a few of them to powder.  He tossed the mallet aside, and glanced at Vi.  She was still crying, but she had half risen at the sound of his blows, and was staring at him through wet eyes.

Leighton started walking up and down, the frown still on his brow.  Finally he came to a stop before the couch.

“Vi,” he said—­“Vi, listen!  You must tell me something.  It isn’t a fair question, but never mind that.”

She lifted a tear-stained face.

“Vi,” said Leighton, tensely, “did he follow?”

Vi raised herself on her arms and stared at him for a moment before she gasped: 

“You fool, do you suppose I would have cared if he had followed?” Then shame gripped her, and she threw herself full-length again, face down.  Her shoulders shook, but she made no sound.

Leighton waited half an hour.  He spent the time walking up and down and smoking cigarettes.  He was no longer frowning.  At the end of the half-hour he caught Vi by the arms and lifted her to her feet.

“Come on,” he said.

Vi stared at him as one half-awakened.

“I don’t want to go anywhere,” she said.  “I’m very well here.”

“Nonsense!” said Leighton, “you don’t realize what you’re doing to yourself.  On my word, you look positively puttyish.”