appeal for a suggestion as to whom they might get to take Amy.

"Let the Devil take her!" Ulick snapped; so that Pemberton could

see that they had not only lost their amiability but had ceased to

believe in themselves. He could also see that if Mrs. Moreen was

trying to get people to take her children she might be regarded as

closing the hatches for the storm. But Morgan would be the last

she would part with.

One winter afternoon - it was a Sunday - he and the boy walked far

together in the Bois de Boulogne. The evening was so splendid, the

cold lemon-coloured sunset so clear, the stream of carriages and

pedestrians so amusing and the fascination of Paris so great, that

they stayed out later than usual and became aware that they should

have to hurry home to arrive in time for dinner. They hurried

accordingly, arm-in-arm, good-humoured and hungry, agreeing that

there was nothing like Paris after all and that after everything

too that had come and gone they were not yet sated with innocent

pleasures. When they reached the hotel they found that, though

scandalously late, they were in time for all the dinner they were

likely to sit down to. Confusion reigned in the apartments of the

Moreens - very shabby ones this time, but the best in the house -

and before the interrupted service of the table, with objects

displaced almost as if there had been a scuffle and a great wine-

stain from an overturned bottle, Pemberton couldn't blink the fact

that there had been a scene of the last proprietary firmness. The

storm had come - they were all seeking refuge. The hatches were

down, Paula and Amy were invisible - they had never tried the most

casual art upon Pemberton, but he felt they had enough of an eye to

him not to wish to meet him as young ladies whose frocks had been

confiscated - and Ulick appeared to have jumped overboard. The

host and his staff, in a word, had ceased to "go on" at the pace of

their guests, and the air of embarrassed detention, thanks to a

pile of gaping trunks in the passage, was strangely commingled with

the air of indignant withdrawal. When Morgan took all this in -

and he took it in very quickly - he coloured to the roots of his

hair. He had walked from his infancy among difficulties and

dangers, but he had never seen a public exposure. Pemberton

noticed in a second glance at him that the tears had rushed into

his eyes and that they were tears of a new and untasted bitterness.

He wondered an instant, for the boy's sake, whether he might

successfully pretend not to understand. Not successfully, he felt,

as Mr. and Mrs. Moreen, dinnerless by their extinguished hearth,

rose before him in their little dishonoured salon, casting about

with glassy eyes for the nearest port in such a storm. They were

not prostrate but were horribly white, and Mrs. Moreen had

evidently been crying. Pemberton quickly learned however that her

grief was not for the loss of her dinner, much as she usually

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