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Updated: May 25, 2025
Moreen's ardour now bore upon was the design of persuading him that in the first place she was very good-natured to bring him fifty francs, and that in the second, if he would only see it, he was really too absurd to expect to be paid.
Pemberton only wondered, while he took up his hat, what "all that" was to amount to people had such different ideas. Mrs. Moreen's words, however, seemed to commit the family to a pledge definite enough to elicit from the child a strange little comment in the shape of the mocking foreign ejaculation "Oh la-la!"
Poor Pemberton could laugh now, apart from the comicality of Mrs. Moreen's mustering so much philosophy for her defence she seemed to shake it out of her agitated petticoats, which knocked over the light gilt chairs so little did their young companion, marked, unmistakeably marked at the best, strike him as qualified to repudiate any advantage. He himself was in for it at any rate.
"It's the family language Ultramoreen," Morgan explained to him drolly enough; but the boy rarely condescended to use it himself, though he dealt in colloquial Latin as if he had been a little prelate. Among all the "days" with which Mrs. Moreen's memory was taxed she managed to squeeze in one of her own, which her friends sometimes forgot.
It couldn't have been but that he was a good type. Pemberton himself remembered Mrs. Clancy, a widowed sister of Mr. Moreen's, who was as irritating as a moral tale and had paid a fortnight's visit to the family at Nice shortly after he came to live with them.
Moreen had a white moustache, a confiding manner and, in his buttonhole, the ribbon of a foreign order bestowed, as Pemberton eventually learned, for services. For what services he never clearly ascertained: this was a point one of a large number that Mr. Moreen's manner never confided. What it emphatically did confide was that he was even more a man of the world than you might first make out.
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