It produced for Pemberton an
embarrassment; it raised in a shadowy form a question--this was the first
glimpse of it--destined to play a singular and, as he imagined, owing to
the altogether peculiar conditions, an unprecedented part in his
intercourse with his little companion. Later, when he found himself
talking with the youngster in a way in which few youngsters could ever
have been talked with, he thought of that clumsy moment on the bench at
Nice as the dawn of an understanding that had broadened. What had added
to the clumsiness then was that he thought it his duty to declare to
Morgan that he might abuse him, Pemberton, as much as he liked, but must
never abuse his parents. To this Morgan had the easy retort that he
hadn't dreamed of abusing them; which appeared to be true: it put
Pemberton in the wrong.
"Then why am I a humbug for saying _I_ think them charming?" the young
man asked, conscious of a certain rashness.
"Well--they're not your parents."
"They love you better than anything in the world--never forget that,"
said Pemberton.
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