“You won’t, you know you won’t—­you’re too interested,” she said.  “You are interested, you know you are, you dear kind man!” She laughed with almost condemnatory archness, as if it were a reproach—­though she wouldn’t insist; and flirted a soiled pocket-handkerchief at him.

Pemberton’s mind was fully made up to take his step the following week.  This would give him time to get an answer to a letter he had despatched to England.  If he did in the event nothing of the sort—­that is if he stayed another year and then went away only for three months—­it was not merely because before the answer to his letter came (most unsatisfactory when it did arrive) Mr. Moreen generously counted out to him, and again with the sacrifice to “form” of a marked man of the world, three hundred francs in elegant ringing gold.  He was irritated to find that Mrs. Moreen was right, that he couldn’t at the pinch bear to leave the child.  This stood out clearer for the very reason that, the night of his desperate appeal to his patrons, he had seen fully for the first time where he was.  Wasn’t it another proof of the success with which those patrons practised their arts that they had managed to avert for so long the illuminating flash?  It descended on our friend with a breadth of effect which perhaps would have struck a spectator as comical, after he had returned to his little servile room, which looked into a close court where a bare dirty opposite wall took, with the sound of shrill clatter, the reflexion of lighted back windows.  He had simply given himself away to a band of adventurers.  The idea, the word itself, wore a romantic horror for him—­he had always lived on such safe lines.  Later it assumed a more interesting, almost a soothing, sense:  it pointed a moral, and Pemberton could enjoy a moral.  The Moreens were adventurers not merely because they didn’t pay their debts, because they lived on society, but because their whole view of life, dim and confused and instinctive, like that of clever colour-blind animals, was speculative and rapacious and mean.  Oh they were “respectable,” and that only made them more immondes.  The young man’s analysis, while he brooded, put it at last very simply—­they were adventurers because they were toadies and snobs.  That was the completest account of them—­it was the law of their being.  Even when this truth became vivid to their ingenious inmate he remained unconscious of how much his mind had been prepared for it by the extraordinary little boy who had now become such a complication in his life.  Much less could he then calculate on the information he was still to owe the extraordinary little boy.

CHAPTER V