He did understand fully before long, but he made a fight even with himself before he confessed it.  He thought it the oddest thing to have a struggle with the child about.  He wondered he didn’t hate the hope of the Moreens for bringing the struggle on.  But by the time it began any such sentiment for that scion was closed to him.  Morgan was a special case, and to know him was to accept him on his own odd terms.  Pemberton had spent his aversion to special cases before arriving at knowledge.  When at last he did arrive his quandary was great.  Against every interest he had attached himself.  They would have to meet things together.  Before they went home that evening at Nice the boy had said, clinging to his arm: 

“Well, at any rate you’ll hang on to the last.”

“To the last?”

“Till you’re fairly beaten.”

“You ought to be fairly beaten!” cried the young man, drawing him closer.

CHAPTER IV

A year after he had come to live with them Mr. and Mrs. Moreen suddenly gave up the villa at Nice.  Pemberton had got used to suddenness, having seen it practised on a considerable scale during two jerky little tours—­one in Switzerland the first summer, and the other late in the winter, when they all ran down to Florence and then, at the end of ten days, liking it much less than they had intended, straggled back in mysterious depression.  They had returned to Nice “for ever,” as they said; but this didn’t prevent their squeezing, one rainy muggy May night, into a second-class railway-carriage—­you could never tell by which class they would travel—­where Pemberton helped them to stow away a wonderful collection of bundles and bags.  The explanation of this manoeuvre was that they had determined to spend the summer “in some bracing place”; but in Paris they dropped into a small furnished apartment—­a fourth floor in a third-rate avenue, where there was a smell on the staircase and the portier was hateful—­and passed the next four months in blank indigence.

The better part of this baffled sojourn was for the preceptor and his pupil, who, visiting the Invalides and Notre Dame, the Conciergerie and all the museums, took a hundred remunerative rambles.  They learned to know their Paris, which was useful, for they came back another year for a longer stay, the general character of which in Pemberton’s memory to-day mixes pitiably and confusedly with that of the first.  He sees Morgan’s shabby knickerbockers—­the everlasting pair that didn’t match his blouse and that as he grew longer could only grow faded.  He remembers the particular holes in his three or four pair of coloured stockings.