Part 15 (2/2)

”Success a source of danger, Dad?”

”In art,” corrected Leighton.

”Yesterday,” he continued, ”you wanted to stop at a shop window, and I wouldn't let you. The window contained an inane repet.i.tion display of thirty horrible prints at two and six each of Lalan's 'Triumph.'”

Leighton sprang to his feet. ”G.o.d! Poster lithographs at two and six!

Boy, Lalan's 'Triumph' _was_ a triumph once. He turned it into a mere success. Before the paint was dry, he let them commercialize his picture, not in st.u.r.dy, faithful prints, but in that--that rubbish.”

Leighton strode up and down the room, his arms behind him, his eyes on the floor.

”Taking art into the poor man's home, they call it. Bah! If you multiply the greatest glory that the genius of man ever imprisoned, and put it all over the walls of your house,--bath, kitchen and under the bed,--you'll find the mean level of that glory is reduced to the terms of the humblest of household utensils.”

A smile nickered in Lewis's eyes, but Leighton did not look up.

”Art is never a constant,” he continued. ”It feeds on spirit, and spirit is evanescent. A truly great picture should be seen by the comparative few. What every one possesses is necessarily a commonplace.

”And now, to get back. I have never talked seriously to you before; I may never do it again. The essence, the distinctive finesse, of breeding, lies in a trained gaiety and an implied sincerity. But what I must say to you is this: Even in this leveling age there are a few of us who look with terror upon an incipient socialism; who believe money as money to be despicable and food and clothing, incidental; who abhor equality, cherish sorrow and suffering and look uponeducation--knowledge of living before G.o.d and man--as the ultimate and only source of content. That's a creed. I'd like to have you think on it. I'd like to have my boy join the Old Guard. Do you begin to see how success in art may become a danger?”

”Yes,” said Lewis, ”I think I do. I think you mean that--that in selling art one is apt to sell one's self.”

”H--m--m!” said Leighton, ”you are older than I am. I'll take you to Paris to-morrow.”

Nelton knocked, and threw open the door without waiting for an answer.

”Her ladys.h.i.+p,” he announced.

Lady Derl entered. She was looking very girlish in a close-fitting, tailored walking-suit. The skirt was short--the first short skirt to reach London. Beneath it could be seen her very pretty feet. They walked excitedly.

Lady Derl was angry. She held a large card in her hand. She tore it into bits and tossed it at Leighton's feet.

”Glen,” she said, ”don't you ever dare to send me one of your engraved 'regrets' again. Why--why you've been rude to me!”

Leighton hung his head. For one second Lewis had the delightful sensation of taking his father for a brother and in trouble.

”H lne,” said Leighton. ”I apologize humbly and abjectly. I thought it would amuse you.”

”Apologies are hateful,” said Lady Derl. ”They're so final. To see a fine young quarrel, in the prime of life, die by lightning--sad! sad!”

She started drawing off her gloves. ”Let's have tea.” As she poured tea for them she asked, ”And what's the real reason you two aren't coming to my dinner?”

Leighton picked up the maimed kid and laid it on the tea-tray. He nodded toward Lewis.

”He made it, I'm going to gamble a bit on him.”

”Poor little thing!” said Lady Derl, poking the two-legged kid with her finger.

”I'm going to put him under Le Brux,--Saint Anthony,--if he'll take him,” continued Leighton. ”We leave for Paris to-morrow.”

”Under Saint Anthony?” repeated Lady Derl. ”H--m--m! Perhaps you are right. But Blanche, Berthe, and Vi will hold it against me.”

When Lewis was alone with his father, he asked: ”Does Lady Derl belong to the Old Guard?”

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