Tembarom glanced at them.
“That's what Pearson says.”
“They're not the right shape,” she explained. “I know what a gentleman's clothes mean in England, and—” her face flushed, and sudden, warm spirit made her speak rather fast—“I couldn't ABIDE to think of you coming here and—being made fun of—just because you hadn't the right clothes.”
She said it, the little thing, as though he were hers—her very own, and defend him against disrespect she WOULD. Tembarom, being but young flesh and blood, made an impetuous dart toward her, and checked himself, catching his breath.
“Ann,” he said, “has your grandmother got a dog?”
“Y-e-s,” she said, faltering because she was puzzled.
“How big is he?”
“He's a big one. He's a brindled bulldog. Why?”
“Well,” he said, half pathetic, half defiant, “if you're going to come and talk to me like that, and look like that, you've got to bring that bull along and set him on me when I make a break; for there's nothing but a dog can keep me where you want me to stay—and a big one at that.”
He sat down on an ottoman near her and dropped his head on his hands. It was not half such a joke as it sounded.