"I'm all right--all right," Morgan panted to Pemberton, whom he sat
looking up at with a strange smile, his hands resting on either side of
the sofa.

"Now do you pretend I've been dishonest, that I've deceived?" Mrs. Moreen
flashed at Pemberton as she got up.

"It isn't _he_ says it, it's I!" the boy returned, apparently easier, but
sinking back against the wall; while his restored friend, who had sat
down beside him, took his hand and bent over him.

"Darling child, one does what one can; there are so many things to
consider," urged Mrs. Moreen. "It's his _place_--his only place. You
see _you_ think it is now."

"Take me away--take me away," Morgan went on, smiling to Pemberton with
his white face.

"Where shall I take you, and how--oh _how_, my boy?" the young man
stammered, thinking of the rude way in which his friends in London held
that, for his convenience, with no assurance of prompt return, he had
thrown them over; of the just resentment with which they would already
have called in a successor, and of the scant help to finding fresh
employment that resided for him in the grossness of his having failed to
pass his pupil.

"Oh we'll settle that. You used to talk about it," said Morgan. "If we
can only go all the rest's a detail."

"Talk about it as much as you like, but don't think you can attempt it.