perceived that it was never fixed, never arrested, that ignorance, at the instant one touched it, was already flushing faintly into knowledge, that there was nothing that at a given moment you could say a clever child didn't know. It seemed to him that he both knew too much to imagine Morgan's simplicity and too little to disembroil his tangle.
The boy paid no heed to his last remark; he only went on: "I should have spoken to them about their idea, as I call it, long ago, if I hadn't been sure what they would say."
"And what would they say?"
"Just what they said about what poor Zénobie told me—that it was a horrid, dreadful story, that they had paid her every penny they owed her."
"Well, perhaps they had," said Pemberton.
"Perhaps they've paid you!"
"Let us pretend they have, and n'en parlons plus."
"They accused her of lying and cheating," Morgan insisted perversely. "That's why I don't want to speak to them."
"Lest they should accuse me, too?"
To this Morgan made no answer, and his companion, looking down at him (the boy turned his eyes, which had filled, away), saw that he couldn't have trusted himself to utter.
"You're right. Don't squeeze 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