Two days later they reached Heidelberg and, on the day following, climbed the mountain to the Königstuhl. They stood on the top of the tower and gazed on such a sight as Lewis had never seen. Here were no endless sands and thorn-trees, no lonely reaches, no tropic glare. All was river and wooded glade, harvest and harvesters, spires above knotted groups of houses, castle, and hovel. Here and there and everywhere, still spirals of smoke hung above the abodes of men. It was like a vision of peace and plenty from the Bible. Lewis was surprised to find that his father was not looking at the scene. Leighton was bending over such a dial as no other spot on earth could boast. Its radiating spokes of varying lengths pointed to a hundred places, almost within the range of sight--names famous in song and story, in peace and in war. Leighton read them out, name after name. He glanced at Lewis's puzzled face. "They mean nothing to you?" he asked. Lewis shook his head. "So you're not quite educated, after all," said Leighton. They descended almost at a run to the gardens behind the Schloss. As they reached them a long string of carriages drove up from the town. They were full of tourists, many of whom wore the enameled flag of the United States in their buttonholes. Some of the women carried little red, white, and blue silk flags. Lewis saw his father wince. "Dad," he asked, "are they Americans?" "Yes, boy," said Leighton. "Do you remember what I told you about the evanescent spirit in art?" Lewis nodded. "Well," said Leighton, "a beloved flag has an evanescent spirit, too. One shouldn't finger carelessly the image one would adore. That's why I winced just now. Collectively, we Americans have never lowered the Stars and Stripes, but individually we do it pretty often." Then he threw up his head and smiled. "After all, there's a bright side even to blatant patriotism. A nation can put up with every form of devotion so long as it gets it from all." "But, Dad," said Lewis, "I thought all American women were beautiful." "So they are," said Leighton, with a laugh. "When you stop believing that, you stop being an American. All American women are beautiful--some outside, and the rest inside." "Why don't you take me to the States?" asked Lewis. Leighton turned around. "How old are you?" "Twenty," said Lewis. "I'll take you," said Leighton, "when you are old enough to see the States. It takes a certain amount of philosophy nowadays to understand your country--and mine. Of all the nations in the world, we Americans see ourselves least as others see us. We have a national vanity that keeps us from studying a looking-glass. That's a paradox," said Leighton, smiling at Lewis's puzzled look. "A paradox," he continued, "is a verity the unpleasant truth of which is veiled." "Anyway, I should like to go to the States," said Lewis.