t is only a trifle. Take it. It is thine."

"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Leighton. "You lend me the arm, and
I'll lend you a thousand francs."

"Done!" cried Le Brux, with a laugh that shook heaven and earth. "Ah,
rascal, thou knowest that I never pay."

As they went the rounds of the atelier, Lewis saw that his father was
growing nervous. Finally, Leighton drew from his pocket the little kid
and its two broken legs. He held the lot out to Le Brux. The fragments
seemed to dwindle to pin-points in Le Brux's vast hand.

"Well," he asked, "what's this?"

Leighton nodded toward Lewis,

"My boy made that."

Le Brux glanced down at his hand. A glint of interest lighted his eyes
and passed. Then a tremendous frown darkened his brow.

"A pupil, eh? Bah!" With his thumb and forefinger he crushed the kid to
powder. "I'll take no pupil."

Lewis gulped in dismay at seeing his kid demolished, but not so
Leighton. He had noted the glint of interest. He turned on Le Brux.

"You'll take no pupil, eh? All right, don't. But you'll take my son. You
shall and you will."

"I will not," growled Le Brux.

"_Maitre"_ began Leighton--"but whom am I calling _Matre_? What are
you? D'you know what you are?" He shook his finger in Le Brux's face.
"You think you're a creator, but you're not. You're nothing but a
palimpsest, the record of a single age. What are your works but one
man's thumb-print on the face of time? Here I am giving you a chance to
_be_ a creator, to breed a live human that will carry on the torch--that
will--"

Le Brux had seated himself heavily on the couch. He held his massive
head between his hands and groaned.

"Ah, Letonne," he interrupted, "our old friendship is dead--dead by
violence. Friends have said things to me before,--called me names,--and
I have stood it. But none of them ever dared call me a palimpsest. Thou
hast called me a palimpsest!"

Leighton seemed not to hear.

"Somebody," he continued, "that will carry on the mighty tradition of Le
Brux. I could take a pupil to any one of a lot of whipper-snappers that
fondle clay, but _my son_ I bring to you. Why? Because you are the
greatest living sculptor? No. No great sculptor ever made another. If my
boy's to be a sculptor, the only way you could stop him would be to
choke him to death."

"I hadn't thought of that," broke in Le Brux, with a look of relief. "If
he bothers me, eh? It would be easy."

In a flash Leighton was all smiles.

"