"And, pray, what would happen to him in that event?" demanded Mrs. Moreen, 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 that 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 Pemberton's hand. "Will you make it—the sacrifice?"
Pemberton burst out laughing. "I'll see—I'll do what I can—I'll stay a little longer. Your calculation is just—I do hate intensely to give him up; I'm fond of him and he interests me deeply, in spite of the inconvenience I suffer. You know my situation perfectly; I haven't a penny in the world, and, occupied as I am with Morgan, I'm 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 am glad to earn what I can," said Mrs. Moreen virtuously, with her head high.
"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 phoenix—to have such pretensions," smiled his interlocutress.