It was moreover a part of the abasement of living with such people that one had to make vulgar retorts, quite out of one’s own tradition of good manners. “Morgan, Morgan, to what pass have I come for you?” he groaned while Mrs. Moreen floated voluminously down the sala again to liberate the boy, wailing as she went that everything was too odious. Before their young friend was liberated there came a thump at the door communicating with the staircase, followed by the apparition of a dripping youth who poked in his head. Pemberton recognised him as the bearer of a telegram and recognised the telegram as addressed to himself. Morgan came back as, after glancing at the signature—that of a relative in London—he was reading the words: “Found a jolly job for you, engagement to coach opulent youth on own terms. Come at once.” The answer happily was paid and the messenger waited. Morgan, who had drawn near, waited too and looked hard at Pemberton; and Pemberton, after a moment, having met his look, handed him the telegram. It was really by wise looks—they knew each other so well now—that, while the telegraph-boy, in his waterproof cape, made a great puddle on the floor, the thing was settled between them. Pemberton wrote the answer with a pencil against the frescoed wall, and the messenger departed. When he had gone the young man explained himself. “I’ll make a tremendous charge; I’ll earn a lot of money in a short time, and we’ll live on it.” “Well, I hope the opulent youth will be a dismal dunce—he probably will—” Morgan parenthesised—“and keep you a long time a-hammering of it in.” “Of course the longer he keeps me the more we shall have for our old age.” “But suppose _they_ don’t pay you!” Morgan awfully suggested. “Oh there are not two such—!” But Pemberton pulled up; he had been on the point of using too invidious a term. Instead of this he said “Two such fatalities.” Morgan flushed—the tears came to his eyes. “Dites toujours two such rascally crews!” Then in a different tone he added: “Happy opulent youth!” “Not if he’s a dismal dunce.” “Oh they’re happier then. But you can’t have everything, can you?” the boy smiled. Pemberton held him fast, hands on his shoulders—he had never loved him so. “What will become of you, what will you do?” He thought of Mrs. Moreen, desperate for sixty francs. “I shall become an homme fait.” And then as if he recognised all the bearings of Pemberton’s allusion: “I shall get on with them better when you’re not here.” “Ah don’t say that—it sounds as if I set you against them!” “You do—the sight of you. It’s all right; you know what I mean. I shall be beautiful. I’ll take their affairs in hand; I’ll marry my sisters.” “You’ll marry yourself!” joked Pemberton; as high, rather tense pleasantry would evidently be the right, or the safest, tone for their separation.