peculiar conditions, an unprecedented part in his intercourse with

his little companion. Later, when he found himself talking with

the youngster in a way in which few youngsters could ever have been

talked with, he thought of that clumsy moment on the bench at Nice

as the dawn of an understanding that had broadened. What had added

to the clumsiness then was that he thought it his duty to declare

to Morgan that he might abuse him, Pemberton, as much as he liked,

but must never abuse his parents. To this Morgan had the easy

retort that he hadn't dreamed of abusing them; which appeared to be

true: it put Pemberton in the wrong.

"Then why am I a humbug for saying I think them charming?" the

young man asked, conscious of a certain rashness.

"Well - they're not your parents."

"They love you better than anything in the world - never forget

that," said Pemberton.

"Is that why you like them so much?"

"They're very kind to me," Pemberton replied evasively.

"You ARE a humbug!" laughed Morgan, passing an arm into his

tutor's. He leaned against him looking oft at the sea again and

swinging his long thin legs.

"Don't kick my shins," said Pemberton while he reflected "Hang it,

I can't complain of them to the child!"

"There's another reason, too," Morgan went on, keeping his legs

still.

"Another reason for what?"

"Besides their not being your parents."

"I don't understand you," said Pemberton.

"Well, you will before long. All right!"

He did understand fully before long, but he made a fight even with

himself before he confessed it. He thought it the oddest thing to

have a struggle with the child about. He wondered he didn't hate

the hope of the Moreens for bringing the struggle on. But by the

time it began any such sentiment for that scion was closed to him.

Morgan was a special case, and to know him was to accept him on his

own odd terms. Pemberton had spent his aversion to special cases

before arriving at knowledge. When at last he did arrive his

quandary was great. Against every interest he had attached

himself. They would have to meet things together. Before they

went home that evening at Nice the boy had said, clinging to his

arm:

"Well, at any rate you'll hang on to the last."

"To the last?"

"Till you're fairly beaten."

"YOU ought to be fairly beaten!" cried the young man, drawing him

closer.

CHAPTER IV

A year after he had come to live with them Mr. and Mrs. Moreen

suddenly gave up the villa at Nice. Pemberton had got used to

suddenness, having seen it practised on a considerable scale during

two jerky little tours - one in Switzerland the first summer, and

the other late in the winter, when they all ran down to Florence

and then, at the end of ten days, liking it much less than they had

intended, straggled back in mysterious depression. They had

returned to Nice "for ever," as they said; but this didn't prevent

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