But it was during the ensuing time that the real problem came up—­the problem of how far it was excusable to discuss the turpitude of parents with a child of twelve, of thirteen, of fourteen.  Absolutely inexcusable and quite impossible it of course at first appeared; and indeed the question didn’t press for some time after Pemberton had received his three hundred francs.  They produced a temporary lull, a relief from the sharpest pressure.  The young man frugally amended his wardrobe and even had a few francs in his pocket.  He thought the Moreens looked at him as if he were almost too smart, as if they ought to take care not to spoil him.  If Mr. Moreen hadn’t been such a man of the world he would perhaps have spoken of the freedom of such neckties on the part of a subordinate.  But Mr. Moreen was always enough a man of the world to let things pass—­he had certainly shown that.  It was singular how Pemberton guessed that Morgan, though saying nothing about it, knew something had happened.  But three hundred francs, especially when one owed money, couldn’t last for ever; and when the treasure was gone—­the boy knew when it had failed—­Morgan did break ground.  The party had returned to Nice at the beginning of the winter, but not to the charming villa.  They went to an hotel, where they stayed three months, and then moved to another establishment, explaining that they had left the first because, after waiting and waiting, they couldn’t get the rooms they wanted.  These apartments, the rooms they wanted, were generally very splendid; but fortunately they never could get them—­fortunately, I mean, for Pemberton, who reflected always that if they had got them there would have been a still scantier educational fund.  What Morgan said at last was said suddenly, irrelevantly, when the moment came, in the middle of a lesson, and consisted of the apparently unfeeling words:  “You ought to filer, you know—­you really ought.”

Pemberton stared.  He had learnt enough French slang from Morgan to know that to filer meant to cut sticks.  “Ah my dear fellow, don’t turn me off!”

Morgan pulled a Greek lexicon toward him—­he used a Greek-German—­to look out a word, instead of asking it of Pemberton.  “You can’t go on like this, you know.”

“Like what, my boy?”

“You know they don’t pay you up,” said Morgan, blushing and turning his leaves.

“Don’t pay me?” Pemberton stared again and feigned amazement.  “What on earth put that into your head?”

“It has been there a long time,” the boy replied rummaging his book.

Pemberton was silent, then he went on:  “I say, what are you hunting for?  They pay me beautifully.”

“I’m hunting for the Greek for awful whopper,” Morgan dropped.

“Find that rather for gross impertinence and disabuse your mind.  What do I want of money?”

“Oh that’s another question!”