mainly at the club, where Pemberton guessed that it was usually

served on green cloth. The girls used to do up their hair and

their frocks themselves, and our young man felt appealed to to be

glad, in regard to Morgan's education, that, though it must

naturally be of the best, it didn't cost too much. After a little

he WAS glad, forgetting at times his own needs in the interest

inspired by the child's character and culture and the pleasure of

making easy terms for him.

During the first weeks of their acquaintance Morgan had been as

puzzling as a page in an unknown language - altogether different

from the obvious little Anglo-Saxons who had misrepresented

childhood to Pemberton. Indeed the whole mystic volume in which

the boy had been amateurishly bound demanded some practice in

translation. To-day, after a considerable interval, there is

something phantasmagoria, like a prismatic reflexion or a serial

novel, in Pemberton's memory of the queerness of the Moreens. If

it were not for a few tangible tokens - a lock of Morgan's hair cut

by his own hand, and the half-dozen letters received from him when

they were disjoined - the whole episode and the figures peopling it

would seem too inconsequent for anything but dreamland. Their

supreme quaintness was their success - as it appeared to him for a

while at the time; since he had never seen a family so brilliantly

equipped for failure. Wasn't it success to have kept him so

hatefully long? Wasn't it success to have drawn him in that first

morning at dejeuner, the Friday he came - it was enough to MAKE one

superstitious - so that he utterly committed himself, and this not

by calculation or on a signal, but from a happy instinct which made

them, like a band of gipsies, work so neatly together? They amused

him as much as if they had really been a band of gipsies. He was

still young and had not seen much of the world - his English years

had been properly arid; therefore the reversed conventions of the

Moreens - for they had THEIR desperate proprieties - struck him as

topsy-turvy. He had encountered nothing like them at Oxford; still

less had any such note been struck to his younger American ear

during the four years at Yale in which he had richly supposed

himself to be reacting against a Puritan strain. The reaction of

the Moreens, at any rate, went ever so much further. He had

thought himself very sharp that first day in hitting them all off

in his mind with the "cosmopolite" label. Later it seemed feeble

and colourless - confessedly helplessly provisional.

He yet when he first applied it felt a glow of joy - for an

instructor he was still empirical - rise from the apprehension that

living with them would really he to see life. Their sociable

strangeness was an intimation of that - their chatter of tongues,

their gaiety and good humour, their infinite dawdling (they were

always getting themselves up, but it took forever, and Pemberton

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