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.
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