“Well, you shan’t lie down for them. You’ve got to go—that’s what you’ve got to do,” said Morgan.
“And what will become of you?”
“Oh I’m growing up. I shall get off before long. I’ll see you later.”
“You had better let me finish you,” Pemberton urged, lending himself to the child’s strange superiority.
Morgan stopped in their walk, looking up at him. He had to look up much less than a couple of years before—he had grown, in his loose leanness, so long and high. “Finish me?” he echoed.
“There are such a lot of jolly things we can do together yet. I want to turn you out—I want you to do me credit.”
Morgan continued to look at him. “To give you credit—do you mean?”
“My dear fellow, you’re too clever to live.”
“That’s just what I’m afraid you think. No, no; it isn’t fair—I can’t endure it. We’ll separate next week. The sooner it’s over the sooner to sleep.”
“If I hear of anything—any other chance—I promise to go,” Pemberton said.