“A young person with her father wants to see you, sir,” he announced. “I don't think they are villagers, but of the working-class, I should say.”
“Where are they?”
“I didn't know exactly what to do, sir, so I left them in the hall. The young person has a sort of quiet, determined way—”
“Little Ann, by gee!” exclaimed Tembarom with mad joy, and shot out of the room.
The footman—he had not seen Little Ann when she had brought Strangeways—looked after him and rubbed his chin.
“Wouldn't you call that a rummy sort for Temple Barholm?” he said to one of his fellows who had appeared in the hall near him.
“It's not my sort,” was the answer. “I'm going to give notice to old Butterworth.”
Hutchinson and Little Ann were waiting in the hall. Hutchinson was looking at the rich, shadowy spaces about him with a sort of proud satisfaction. Fine, dark corners with armored figures lurking in them, ancient portraits, carved oak settles, and massive chairs and cabinets—these were English, and he was an Englishman, and somehow felt them the outcome of certain sterling qualities of his own. He looked robustly well, and wore a new rough tweed suit such as one of the gentry might tramp about muddy roads and fields in. Little Ann was dressed in something warm and rough also, a brown thing, with a little close, cap-like, brown hat, from under which her red hair glowed. The walk in the cold, white fog had made her bloom fresh, soft-red and white-daisy color. She was smiling, and showing three distinct dimples, which deepened when Tembarom dashed out of the library.
“Hully gee!” he cried out, “but I'm glad to see you!”
He shook hands with both of them furiously, and two footmen stood and looked at the group with image-like calm of feature, but with curiously interested eyes. Hutchinson was aware of them, and endeavored to present to them a back which by its stolid composure should reveal that he knew more about such things than this chap did and wasn't a bit upset by grandeur.