three hundred francs, especially when one owed money, couldn't last for
ever; and when the treasure was gone--the boy knew when it had
failed--Morgan did break ground. The party had returned to Nice at the
beginning of the winter, but not to the charming villa. They went to an
hotel, where they stayed three months, and then moved to another
establishment, explaining that they had left the first because, after
waiting and waiting, they couldn't get the rooms they wanted. These
apartments, the rooms they wanted, were generally very splendid; but
fortunately they never _could_ get them--fortunately, I mean, for
Pemberton, who reflected always that if they had got them there would
have been a still scantier educational fund. What Morgan said at last
was said suddenly, irrelevantly, when the moment came, in the middle of a
lesson, and consisted of the apparently unfeeling words: "You ought to
filer, you know--you really ought."

Pemberton stared. He had learnt enough French slang from Morgan to know
that to filer meant to cut sticks. "Ah my dear fellow, don't turn me
off!"

Morgan pulled a Greek lexicon toward him--he used a Greek-German--to look
out a word, instead of asking it of Pemberton. "You can't go on like
this, you know."

"Like what, my boy?"

"You know they don't pay you up," said Morgan, blushing and turning his
leaves.

"Don't pay me?" Pemberton stared again and feigned amazement. "What on
earth put that into your head?"