he had been a gilded idol. "It will pass—it's only for an instant; but don't say such dreadful things!"
"I'm all right—all right," Morgan panted to Pemberton, whom he sat looking up at with a strange smile, his hands resting on either side on the sofa.
"Now do you pretend I've been treacherous—that I've deceived?" Mrs. Moreen flashed at Pemberton as she got up.
"It isn't he says it, it's I!" the boy returned, apparently easier, but sinking back against the wall; while Pemberton, who had sat down beside him, taking his hand, bent over him.
"Darling child, one does what one can; there are so many things to consider," urged Mrs. Moreen. "It's his place—his only place. You see you think it is now."
"Take me away—take me away," Morgan went on, smiling to Pemberton from his white face.
"Where shall I take you, and how—oh, how, my boy?" the young man stammered, thinking of the rude way in which his friends in London held that, for his convenience, and without a pledge of instantaneous return, he had thrown them over; of the just resentment with which they would already have called in a successor, and of the little help as regarded finding fresh employment that resided for him in the flatness of his having failed to pass his pupil.
"Oh, we'll settle that. You used to talk about it," said Morgan. "If we can only go, all the rest's a detail."
"Talk about it as much as you like, but don't think you can attempt it. Mr. Moreen would never consent—it would be so precarious," Pemberton's hostess explained to him. Then to Morgan she explained: "It would destroy our peace, it would break our hearts. Now that