“Why?” inquired Tembarom, taking his tobacco-pouch out of his pocket and preparing to fill another pipe.
“You're most kind, sir, but—but—” in impassioned embarrassment—“I should really PREFER to stand, sir, if you don't mind. I should feel more—more at 'ome, sir,” he added, dropping an h in his agitation.
“Well, if you'd like it better, that's all right,” yielded Mr. Temple Barholm, stuffing tobacco into the pipe. Pearson darted to a table, produced a match, struck it, and gave it to him.
“Thank you,” said Tembarom, still good-naturedly. “But there are a few things I've GOT to say to you RIGHT now.”
Pearson had really done his best, his very best, but he was terrified because of the certain circumstances once before referred to.
“I beg pardon, sir,” he appealed, “but I am most anxious to give satisfaction in every respect.” He WAS, poor young man, horribly anxious. “To-day being only the first day, I dare say I have not been all I should have been. I have never valeted an American gentleman before, but I'm sure I shall become accustomed to everything QUITE soon—almost immediately.”
“Say,” broke in Tembarom, “you're 'way off. I'm not complaining. You're all right.”
The easy good temper of his manner was so singularly assuring that Pearson, unexplainable as he found him in every other respect, knew that this at least was to be depended upon, and he drew an almost palpable breath of relief. Something actually allured him into approaching what he had never felt it safe to approach before under like circumstances—a confidential disclosure.
“Thank you, sir: I am most grateful. The—fact is, I hoped especially to be able to settle in place just now. I—I'm hoping to save up enough to get married, sir.”
“You are?” Tembarom exclaimed. “Good business! So was I before all this”—he glanced about him—“fell on top of me.”