Mr. Temple Barholm looked down at him with a friendly, if unusual, air.
“Say, Pearson,” he announced, “if you've come to wash my face and put my hair up in crimping-pins, you needn't do it, because I'm not used to it. But come on in.”
If he had told Pearson to enter and climb the chimney, it cannot be said that the order would have been obeyed upon the spot, but Pearson would certainly have hesitated and explained with respectful delicacy the fact that the task was not “his place.” He came into the room.
“I came to see, if I could do anything further and—” making a courageous onslaught upon the situation for which he had been preparing himself for hours—“and also—if it is not too late—to venture to trouble you with regard to your wardrobe.” He coughed a low, embarrassed cough. “In unpacking, sir, I found—I did not find—”
“You didn't find much, did you?” Tembarom assisted him.
“Of course, sir,” Pearson apologized, “leaving New York so hurriedly, your—your man evidently had not time to—er—”
Tembarom looked at him a few seconds longer, as if making up his mind to something. Then he threw himself easily into the big chair by the fire, and leaned back in it with the frankest and best-natured smile possible.
“I hadn't any man,” he said. “Say, Pearson,” waving his hand to another chair near by, “suppose you take a seat.”
Long and careful training came to Pearson's aid and supported him, but he was afraid that he looked nervous, and certainly there was a lack of entire calm in his voice.
“I—thank you, sir,—I think I'd better stand, sir.”