His patroness met his eyes—it was clear she was in straits. Then she thrust out her money at him. “Mr. Moreen desired me to give you this on account.”
“I’m much obliged to Mr. Moreen, but we have no account.”
“You won’t take it?”
“That leaves me more free,” said Pemberton.
“To poison my darling’s mind?” groaned Mrs. Moreen.
“Oh your darling’s mind—!” the young man laughed.
She fixed him a moment, and he thought she was going to break out tormentedly, pleadingly: “For God’s sake, tell me what is in it!” But she checked this impulse—another was stronger. She pocketed the money—the crudity of the alternative was comical—and swept out of the room with the desperate concession: “You may tell him any horror you like!”
CHAPTER VI
A couple of days after this, during which he had failed to profit by so free a permission, he had been for a quarter of an hour walking with his charge in silence when the boy became sociable again with the remark: “I’ll tell you how I know it; I know it through Zénobie.”
“Zénobie? Who in the world is she?”