Lewis felt a sudden depression fall on him, all the more terible for the exaltation that had preceded it.

“Two sides of a fence, Dad?” he said.  “That can never be.  I—­I’ve just got to convert you.  When you know her, she’ll help me.”

The two rose to their feet on a common impulse.  Leighton laid his hand on Lewis’s shoulder.

“Boy,” he said, “forgive me for making your very words my own.  I have no illusions as to the power of woman.  She is at once the supreme source of happiness and of poignant suffering.  You think your woman will help you; I think she’ll help me.  That neutralizes her a bit, doesn’t it?  It reduces our battle to the terms of single combat—­unless one of us is right about Folly.”

“But, Dad,” stammered Lewis, “I don’t want a battle.”

Leighton pressed his hand down.  Unconsciously Lewis straightened under the pressure.

“Listen to this,” said Leighton.  “The battles of life aren’t served up like the courses at a dinner that you can skip at will.  In life we have to fight.  Mostly we have to fight people we love for things we love better.  Sometimes we fight them for the very love we bear them.  You and I are going to fight each other because we can’t help it.  Let’s fight like gentlemen—­to the finish—­and smile.  My boy, you don’t know Folly.”

“It’s you who don’t know Folly, Dad,” said Lewis, He tried to smile, but his lips twitched treacherously.  Not since Leighton had gambled with him, and won all he possessed, had such a blow been dealt to his faith.

CHAPTER XXXV

Both Lewis and his father passed a miserable night, but not even Nelton could have guessed it when the two met in the morning for a late Sunday breakfast.  Leighton felt a touch of pride in the bearing of his son.  He wondered if Lewis had taken to heart a saying of his:  “To feel sullen is human nature; to show it is ill breeding.”  He decided that he hadn’t, on the grounds that no single saying is ever more than a straw tossed on the current of life.

When they had finished breakfast in their accustomed cheerful silence, Leighton settled down to a long cigar and his paper.

“I suppose you’re off to see your lady,” he said casually.

Lewis laughed.

“Not yet.  She isn’t up until twelve ever.”

“Doesn’t get up until twelve?” said Leighton.  “You’ve found that out, eh?”

“I didn’t say ‘doesn’t get up’; I said ‘isn’t.’  She gets up early enough, but it takes her hours.  I’ve never even heard of a woman that takes such care of herself.”

Leighton laid his paper aside.

“By the way,” he said, “I’ve a confession to make to you, one that has worried me for some days.  Your little affair drove it out of my mind last night.”

“Well, Dad, go ahead,” said Lewis.  “I won’t be hard on you.”

“Have you any recollection of what you were working on before you went away?”