exorbitant pretensions it had never been easy to discover?  Wasn’t he paid above all by the sweet relation he had established with Morgan—­quite ideal as from master to pupil—­and by the simple privilege of knowing and living with so amazingly gifted a child; than whom really (and she meant literally what she said) there was no better company in Europe?  Mrs. Moreen herself took to appealing to him as a man of the world; she said “Voyons, mon cher,” and “My dear man, look here now”; and urged him to be reasonable, putting it before him that it was truly a chance for him.  She spoke as if, according as he should be reasonable, he would prove himself worthy to be her son’s tutor and of the extraordinary confidence they had placed in him.

After all, Pemberton reflected, it was only a difference of theory and the theory didn’t matter much.  They had hitherto gone on that of remunerated, as now they would go on that of gratuitous, service; but why should they have so many words about it?  Mrs. Moreen at all events continued to be convincing; sitting there with her fifty francs she talked and reiterated, as women reiterate, and bored and irritated him, while he leaned against the wall with his hands in the pockets of his wrapper, drawing it together round his legs and looking over the head of his visitor at the grey negations of his window.  She wound up with saying:  “You see I bring you a definite proposal.”

“A definite proposal?”

“To make our relations regular, as it were—­to put them on a comfortable footing.”

“I see—­it’s a system,” said Pemberton.  “A kind of organised blackmail.”

Mrs. Moreen bounded up, which was exactly what he wanted.  “What do you mean by that?”

“You practise on one’s fears—­one’s fears about the child if one should go away.”

“And pray what would happen to him in that event?” she demanded, with majesty.

“Why he’d be alone with you.”

“And pray with whom should a child be but with those whom he loves most?”

“If you think that, why don’t you dismiss me?”

“Do you pretend he loves you more than he loves us?” cried Mrs. Moreen.

“I think he ought to.  I make sacrifices for him.  Though I’ve heard of those you make I don’t see them.”

Mrs. Moreen stared a moment; then with emotion she grasped her inmate’s hand. “Will you make it—­the sacrifice?”

He burst out laughing.  “I’ll see.  I’ll do what I can.  I’ll stay a little longer.  Your calculation’s just—­I do hate intensely to give him up; I’m fond of him and he thoroughly interests me, in spite of the inconvenience I suffer.  You know my situation perfectly.  I haven’t a penny in the world and, occupied as you see me with Morgan, am unable to earn money.”

Mrs. Moreen tapped her undressed arm with her folded bank-note.  “Can’t you write articles?  Can’t you translate as I do?”