Mr. Temple Barholm seemed to think it over.
“That's queer,” he said as though to himself. “That's what Ann said.” Then aloud, “Would you say he was an American?”
In his unavoidable interest in a matter much talked over below stairs and productive of great curiosity Pearson was betrayed. He could not explain to himself, after he had spoken, how he could have been such a fool as to forget; but forget himself and the birthplace of the new Mr. Temple Barholm he did.
“Oh, no, sir,” he exclaimed hastily; “he's QUITE the gentleman, sir, even though he is queer in his mind.” The next instant he caught himself and turned cold. An American or a Frenchman or an Italian, in fact, a native of any country on earth so slighted with an unconsciousness so natural, if he had been a man of hot temper, might have thrown something at him or kicked him out of the room; but Mr. Temple Barholm took his pipe out of his mouth and looked at him with a slow, broadening smile.
“Would you call me a gentleman, Pearson?” he asked.
Of course there was no retrieving such a blunder, Pearson felt, but—
“Certainly, sir,” he stammered. “Most—most CERTAINLY, sir.”
“Pearson,” said Tembarom, shaking his head slowly, with a grin so good-natured that even the frankness of his words was friendly humor itself—“Pearson, you're a liar. But that doesn't jolt me a bit. I dare say I'm not one, anyhow. We might put an 'ad' in one of your papers and find out.”
“I—I beg your pardon, sir,” murmured Pearson in actual anguish of mind.
Mr. Temple Barholm laughed outright.