“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?” “I don’t know about translating; it’s wretchedly paid.” “I’m glad to earn what I can,” said Mrs. Moreen with prodigious virtue. “You ought to tell me who you do it for.” Pemberton paused a moment, and she said nothing; so he added: “I’ve tried to turn off some little sketches, but the magazines won’t have them—they’re declined with thanks.” “You see then you’re not such a phœnix,” his visitor pointedly smiled—“to pretend to abilities you’re sacrificing for our sake.” “I haven’t time to do things properly,” he ruefully went on. Then as it came over him that he was almost abjectly good-natured to give these explanations he added: “If I stay on longer it must be on one condition—that Morgan shall know distinctly on what footing I am.” Mrs. Moreen demurred. “Surely you don’t want to show off to a child?” “To show _you_ off, do you mean?” Again she cast about, but this time it was to produce a still finer flower. “And _you_ talk of blackmail!” “You can easily prevent it,” said Pemberton. “And _you_ talk of practising on fears,” she bravely pushed on. “Yes, there’s no doubt I’m a great scoundrel.” His patroness met his eyes—it was clear she was in straits. Then she thrust out her money at him. “Mr. Moreen desired me to give you this on account.” “I’m much obliged to Mr. Moreen, but we _have_ no account.” “You won’t take it?” “That leaves me more free,” said Pemberton. “To poison my darling’s mind?” groaned Mrs. Moreen. “Oh your darling’s mind—!” the young man laughed. She fixed him a moment, and he thought she was going to break out tormentedly, pleadingly: “For God’s sake, tell me what _is_ in it!” But she checked this impulse—another was stronger. She pocketed the money—the crudity of the alternative was comical—and swept out of the room with the desperate concession: “You may tell him any horror you like!” CHAPTER VI