his parents. To this Morgan had the easy reply that he hadn't dreamed of abusing them; which appeared to be true: it put Pemberton in the wrong.
"Then why am I a humbug for saying I think them charming?" the young man asked, conscious of a certain rashness.
"Well—they're not your parents."
"They love you better than anything in the world—never forget that," said Pemberton.
"Is that why you like them so much?"
"They're very kind to me," Pemberton replied, evasively.
"You are a humbug!" laughed Morgan, passing an arm into his tutor's. He leaned against him, looking off at the sea again and swinging his long, thin legs.
"Don't kick my shins," said Pemberton, while he reflected: "Hang it, I can't complain of them to the child!"
"There's another reason, too," Morgan went on, keeping his legs still.
"Another reason for what?"
"Besides their not being your parents."
"I don't understand you," said Pemberton.
"Well, you will before long. All right!"
Pemberton 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 detest the child for launching him in such a struggle. But by the time it began the resource of detesting the child was closed to him. Morgan was a special case, but 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 he felt
