Part 33 (1/2)

”A prude,” stammered Lewis--”why a prude's a person with an exaggerated idea of modesty, isn't it?”

”Bah!” said Leighton, ”you are as flat as a dictionary. A prude is a far more active evil than that. A prude, my boy, is one who has but a single eye, and that in the back of his head, and who keeps his blind face set toward nature. If he would be content to walk backward, the world would get along more easily, and would like him better the farther he walked.

The reason the live world has always hated prudes is that it's forever being stumbled on by them. Your prude clutches Irving to the small of his back and cries, 'This alone is beauty!' But any man with two eyes looks and answers, 'You are wrong; this is beauty alone.'

”And now do you see where we've come out? To make a thing of beauty alone is to bring a flash of joy to a hard-pressed world. But joy is never a force, not even an achievement. It's merely an acquisition. It isn't alive. The man who writes on paper or in stone one throbbing cry of the soul has lifted the world by the power of his single arm. He alone lives. And it is written that you shall know life above all the creatures that are in sea and land and in the heavens above the earth by this sign: sole among the things that are, life is its own source and its own end.”

Leighton stopped.

”You see now,” he added, ”why half of me is sorry that it let the other half smash up that cast. What claim has a puny person against one flicker of eternal truth?”

”Yes,” said Lewis, slowly, ”I see. I can follow your logic to the very end. I can't answer it. All I know is that I myself--I couldn't have paid the price, nor--nor let Vi pay it.”

”And to tell you the truth,” said Leighton with a smile, ”I don't know that I'm sorry.” Lewis rose to his feet.

”Well, Dad,” he said, ”it's about twelve o'clock.”

”Go ahead, my boy,” said Leighton. ”Bring the lady to lunch to-day or any other day--if she'll come. Just telephone Nelton.”

CHAPTER x.x.xVI

DURING the next few days Leighton saw little of his son and nothing of Folly, but he learned quite casually that the lady was occupying an apartment overlooking Hyde Park. From that it was easy for him to guess her address, and one morning, without saying anything to Lewis of his plans, he presented himself at Folly's door. A trim maid opened to his ring.

”Is Mlle. Delaires in, my dear?” asked Leighton.

The maid stiffened, and peered intently at Leighton, who stood at ease in the half-dusk of the hall. When she had quite made out his trim, well-dressed figure, she decided not to be as haughty as she had at first intended.

”Miss Delaires,” she said, without quite unbending, however, ”is not in to callers at half after ten; she's in her bath.”

”I am fortunate,” remarked Leighton, coolly. ”Will you take her my card?” He weighted it with a sovereign.

”Oh, sir,” said the maid, ”it's not fair for me to take it. She won't be seeing you. I can promise.”

”Where shall I wait?” asked Leighton, stepping past her.

”This way, sir.”

He was shown into a small, but dainty, sitting-room. The door beyond was ajar, and before the maid closed it he caught a glimpse of a large bedroom still in disarray. In the better light the maid glanced at his face and then at his card.

”What kin are you to Mr. Lewis Leighton, please, sir?” she asked.

”I have every reason to believe that I'm his father,” said Leighton, smiling.

”I should say you had, sir,” answered the maid, with a laugh, ”if looks is a guaranty. But even so she won't see you, I'm afraid.”

”I don't mind much if she doesn't,” said Leighton. ”Just to have had this chat with you makes it a charming morning.”

In saying that Miss Delaires was in her bath, the maid had committed an anachronism. Folly was not in her bath. She had been in her bath over an hour ago; now she was in her bandages.