master to pupil—and by the simple privilege of knowing and living with so amazingly gifted a child, than whom really—she meant literally what she said—there was no better company in Europe? Mrs Moreen herself took to appealing to him as a man of the world; she said "Voyons, mon cher," and "My dear sir, look here now;" and urged him to be reasonable, putting it before him that it was really a chance for him. She spoke as if, according as he should be reasonable, he would prove himself worthy to be her son's tutor and of the extraordinary confidence they had placed in him.
After all, Pemberton reflected, it was only a difference of theory, and the theory didn't matter much. They had hitherto gone on that of remunerated, as now they would go on that of gratuitous, service; but why should they have so many words about it? Mrs. Moreen, however, continued to be convincing; sitting there with her fifty francs she talked and repeated, as women repeat, and bored and irritated him, while he leaned against the wall with his hands in the pockets of his wrapper, drawing it together round his legs and looking over the head of his visitor at the grey negations of his window. She wound up with saying: "You see I bring you a definite proposal."
"A definite proposal?"
"To make our relations regular, as it were—to put them on a comfortable footing."
'I see—it's a system," said Pemberton. "A kind of blackmail."
Mrs. Moreen bounded up, which was what the young man wanted.
"What do you mean by that?"
"You practice on one's fears—one's fears about the child if one should go away."