The Pupil

“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 oft 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!”

He 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 hate the hope of the Moreens for bringing the struggle on.  But by the time it began any such sentiment for that scion was closed to him.  Morgan was a special case, and 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 his quandary was great.  Against every interest he had attached himself.  They would have to meet things together.  Before they went home that evening at Nice the boy had said, clinging to his arm: