know where he is," said Le Brux. "He's not under the throne. I
remember, vaguely, it is true, but I remember letting him out. That was
this morning. Then I wired to you. Since then I have been laughing
myself to death."

Leighton continued to wipe his eyes, but Le Brux had sobered down.

"Talk about my mighty impersonality before the nude?" he cried.
"Impersonality! Bah! Mine? Let me tell you that for your boy the nude in
the human form doesn't _exist_ any more than a nude snake, fish, dog,
cat, or canary exists for you or me. He's the most natural, practical,
educated human being I ever came across, and there are several thousand
mothers in France that would do well to send their _jeunes filles_ to
the school that turned him out. In other words, my friend, your boy is
so fresh that I have no mind to be the one to watch him wither or wake
up or do any of the things that Paris leads to. I wired for you to take
him away."

"We'll have to find him first," said Leighton. "Let's look in his room."

Together they walked down the hall. Leighton opened the door without
knocking. He stood transfixed. Le Brux stared over his shoulder. Lewis,
with his back to them, was working feverishly at the wet clay piled on a
board laid across the backs of two chairs. On Lewis's little bed lay
Cellette, front down, her chin in her hand, and reading a book.

"Holy name of ten thousand pigs!" murmured Le Brux.

Lewis turned.

"Why, Dad!" he cried, "I _am_ glad to see you!"

Leighton's heart was in the grip he gave the boy's hand so frankly held
out.

"_Maitre_," remarked Cellette from the bed, "believe me if you can: he
is still a babe."

"A babe!" cried Le Brux, catching Lewis with finger and thumb and
lifting him away from the board. "I should say he is. Here!" He caught
up chunks of wet clay and hurled them at Lewis's dainty model of
Cellette. He started molding with sweeps of his thumb. A gigantic, but
graceful, leg began to take form. He turned and caught Lewis again and
shook him till his head rolled. "Big!" he roared, thumping his chest.
"Make it big--like me!"

Leighton returned to London alone.

CHAPTER XXII

Lewis's life in Paris fell into unusual, but not unhappy, lines. It was
true that when others were around, Le Brux treated him as though he were
a scullion or at least a poor relative living on his bounty, for the
great sculptor was in dread lest it be noised about that he had at last
taken a pupil. But w