“Hully gee!” cried Tembarom again, “how glad I am! Come on in and sit down and let's talk it over.”
Burrill made a stately step forward, properly intent on his duty, and his master waved him back.
“Say,” he said hastily, “don't bring in any tea. They don't want it. They're Americans.”
Hutchinson snorted. He could not stand being consigned to ignominy before the footmen.
“Nowt o' th' sort,” he broke forth. “We're noan American. Tha'rt losing tha head, lad.”
“He's forgetting because he met us first in New York,” said Little Ann, smiling still more.
“Shall I take your hat and cane, sir?” inquired Burrill, unmovedly, at Hutchinson's side.
“He wasn't going to say anything about tea,” explained Little Ann as they went into the library. “They don't expect to serve tea in the middle of the morning, Mr. Temple Barholm.”
“Don't they?” said Tembarom, reckless with relieved delight. “I thought they served it every time the clock struck. When we were in London it seemed like Palford had it when he was hot and when he was cold and when he was glad and when he was sorry and when he was going out and when he was coming in. It's brought up to me, by jinks! as soon as I wake, to brace me up to put on my clothes—and Pearson wants to put those on.”
He stopped short when they reached the middle of the room and looked her over.