“Lest they should accuse me, too?” To this Morgan made no answer, and his companion, looking down at him—the boy turned away his eyes, which had filled—saw what he couldn’t have trusted himself to utter. “You’re right. Don’t worry them,” Pemberton pursued. “Except for that, they _are_ charming people.” “Except for _their_ lying and _their_ cheating?” “I say—I say!” cried Pemberton, imitating a little tone of the lad’s which was itself an imitation. “We must be frank, at the last; we _must_ come to an understanding,” said Morgan with the importance of the small boy who lets himself think he is arranging great affairs—almost playing at shipwreck or at Indians. “I know all about everything.” “I dare say your father has his reasons,” Pemberton replied, but too vaguely, as he was aware. “For lying and cheating?” “For saving and managing and turning his means to the best account. He has plenty to do with his money. You’re an expensive family.” “Yes, I’m very expensive,” Morgan concurred in a manner that made his preceptor burst out laughing. “He’s saving for _you_,” said Pemberton. “They think of you in everything they do.” “He might, while he’s about it, save a little—” The boy paused, and his friend waited to hear what. Then Morgan brought out oddly: “A little reputation.” “Oh there’s plenty of that. That’s all right!” “Enough of it for the people they know, no doubt. The people they know are awful.” “Do you mean the princes? We mustn’t abuse the princes.” “Why not? They haven’t married Paula—they haven’t married Amy. They only clean out Ulick.” “You _do_ know everything!” Pemberton declared. “No, I don’t, after all. I don’t know what they live on, or how they live, or _why_ they live! What have they got and how did they get it? Are they rich, are they poor, or have they a modeste aisance? Why are they always chiveying me about—living one year like ambassadors and the next like paupers? Who are they, any way, and what are they? I’ve thought of all that—I’ve thought of a lot of things. They’re so beastly worldly. That’s what I hate most—oh, I’ve _seen_ it! All they care about is to make an appearance and to pass for something or other. What the dickens do they want to pass for? What _do_ they, Mr. Pemberton?” “You pause for a reply,” said Pemberton, treating the question as a joke, yet wondering too and greatly struck with his mate’s intense if imperfect vision. “I haven’t the least idea.” “And what good does it do? Haven’t I seen the way people treat them—the ‘nice’ people, the ones they want to know? They’ll take anything from them—they’ll lie down and be trampled on. The nice ones hate that—they just sicken them. You’re the only really nice person we know.” “Are you sure? They don’t lie down for me!” “Well, you shan’t lie down for them. You’ve got to go—that’s what you’ve got to do,” said Morgan. “And what will become of you?”