"That's a pretty name, too," said Lewis. "Yes," said the lady, rising and holding out her hand, "call me that--at the door." "Dad," said Lewis as they walked back to the flat, "does she live all alone in that big house?" Leighton came out of a reverie. "That lady, Lew, is Lady H lne Derl. She is the wife of Lord Derl. You won't see much of Lord Derl, because he spends most of his time in a sort of home for incurables. His hobby is faunal research. In other words, he's a drunkard. Bah! We won't talk any more about _that_." CHAPTER XVIII A few months later, when Lewis had very much modified his ideas of London, he was walking with his father in the park at the hour which the general English fitness of things assigns to the initiated. A very little breaking in and a great deal of tailoring had gone a long way with Lewis. Men looked at father and son as though they thought they ought to recognize them even if they didn't. Women turned kindly eyes upon them. The morning after Lady Derl took Lewis into her carriage in the park she received three separate notes from female friends demanding that she "divvy up." Knowing women in general and the three in special, she prepared to comply. Often Lewis and his father had been summoned by a scribbled note for pot-luck with Lady Derl; but this time it was a formal invitation, engraved. Lewis read his card casually. His face lighted up. Leighton read his with deeper perception, and frowned. "Already!" he grunted. Then he said: "When you've finished breakfast, come to my den. I want to talk to you." Lewis found his father sitting like a judge on the bench, behind a great oak desk he rarely used. An envelope, addressed, lay before him. He rang for Nelton and sent it out. "Sit down," he said to Lewis. "Where did you get your education? By education I don't mean a knowledge of knives, forks, and fish-eaters. That's from Ann Leighton, of course. Nor do I mean the power of adding two to two or reciting A B C D, etc. By education a gentleman means skill in handling life." "And have I got it?" asked Lewis, smiling. "You meet life with a calmness and deftness unusual in a boy," said Leighton, gravely. "I--I don't know," began Lewis. "I've never been educated. By the time I was nine I knew how to read and write and figure a little. After that--you know--I just sat on the hills for years with the goats. I read the Reverend Orme's books, of course." "What were the books?" "There weren't many," said Lewis. "There was the Bible, of course. There was a little set of Shakspere in awfully fine print and a set of Walter Scott." Leighton nodded. "The Bible is essential but not educative until you learn to depolarize it. Shakspere--you'll begin to read Shakspere in about ten years. Walter Scott. Scott--well--Scott is just a bright ax for the neck of time. What else did you read?" "I read 'The City of God' but not very often."