“And pray what would happen to him in that event?” she demanded, with majesty.
“Why he’d be alone with you.”
“And pray with whom should a child be but with those whom he loves most?”
“If you think that, why don’t you dismiss me?”
“Do you pretend he loves you more than he loves us?” cried Mrs. Moreen.
“I think he ought to. I make sacrifices for him. Though I’ve heard of those you make I don’t see them.”
Mrs. Moreen stared a moment; then with emotion she grasped her inmate’s hand. “Will you make it—the sacrifice?”
He burst out laughing. “I’ll see. I’ll do what I can. I’ll stay a little longer. Your calculation’s just—I do hate intensely to give him up; I’m fond of him and he thoroughly interests me, in spite of the inconvenience I suffer. You know my situation perfectly. I haven’t a penny in the world and, occupied as you see me with Morgan, am unable to earn money.”
Mrs. Moreen tapped her undressed arm with her folded bank-note. “Can’t you write articles? Can’t you translate as I do?”
“I don’t know about translating; it’s wretchedly paid.”