Moreen was trying to get people to take her children she
might be regarded as closing the hatches for the storm. But Morgan would
be the last she would part with.
One winter afternoon--it was a Sunday--he and the boy walked far together
in the Bois de Boulogne. The evening was so splendid, the cold lemon-
coloured sunset so clear, the stream of carriages and pedestrians so
amusing and the fascination of Paris so great, that they stayed out later
than usual and became aware that they should have to hurry home to arrive
in time for dinner. They hurried accordingly, arm-in-arm, good-humoured
and hungry, agreeing that there was nothing like Paris after all and that
after everything too that had come and gone they were not yet sated with
innocent pleasures. When they reached the hotel they found that, though
scandalously late, they were in time for all the dinner they were likely
to sit down to. Confusion reigned in the apartments of the Moreens--very
shabby ones this time, but the best in the house--and before the
interrupted service of the table, with objects displaced almost as if
there had been a scuffle and a great wine-stain from an overturned
bottle, Pemberton couldn't blink the fact that there had been a scene of
the last proprietary firmness.
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