Chapter 1

The poor young man hesitated and procrastinated: it cost him such an
effort to broach the subject of terms, to speak of money to a person who
spoke only of feelings and, as it were, of the aristocracy. Yet he was
unwilling to take leave, treating his engagement as settled, without some
more conventional glance in that direction than he could find an opening
for in the manner of the large affable lady who sat there drawing a pair
of soiled gants de Suede through a fat jewelled hand and, at once
pressing and gliding, repeated over and over everything but the thing he
would have liked to hear. He would have liked to hear the figure of his
salary; but just as he was nervously about to sound that note the little
boy came back--the little boy Mrs. Moreen had sent out of the room to
fetch her fan. He came back without the fan, only with the casual
observation that he couldn't find it. As he dropped this cynical
confession he looked straight and hard at the candidate for the honour of
taking his education in hand. This personage reflected somewhat grimly
that the thing he should have to teach his little charge would be to
appear to address himself to his mother when he spoke to her--especially
not to make her such an improper answer as that.

When Mrs. Moreen bethought herself of this pretext for getting rid of
their companion Pemberton supposed it was precisely to approach the
delicate subject of his remuneration. But it had been only to say some
things about her son that it was better a boy of eleven shouldn't catch.
They were extravagantly to his advantage save when she lowered her voice
to sigh, tapping her left side familiarly, "And all overclouded by
_this_, you know; all at the mercy of a weakness--!" Pemberton gathered
that the weakness was in the region of the heart. He had known the poor
child was not robust: this was the basis on which he had been invited to
treat, through an English lady, an Oxford acquaintance, then at Nice, who
happened to know both his needs and those of the amiable American family
looking out for something really superior in the way of a resident tutor.

The young man's impression of his prospective pupil, who had come into
the room as if to see for himself the moment Pemberton was admitted, was
not quite the soft solicitation the visitor had taken for granted. Morgan
Moreen was somehow sickly without being "delicate," and that he looked
intelligent--it is true Pemberton wouldn't have enjoyed his being
stupid--only added to the suggestion that, as with his big mouth and big
ears he really couldn't be called pretty, he might too utterly fail to
please. Pemberton was modest, was even timid; and the chance that his
small scholar might prove cleverer than himself had quite