“Good Lord! no!” he exclaimed. “I'll do anything if you'll stay. I'll lie down on the mat and not open my mouth. Just sit here and tell me things. I know you won't let me hold your hand, but just let me hold a bit of your dress and look at you while you talk.” He took a bit of her brown frock between his fingers and held it, gazing at her with all his crude young soul in his eyes. “Now tell me,” he added.
“There's only one or two things about the people who'll come to Temple Barholm. Grandmother's talked it over with me. She knew all about those that came in the late Mr. Temple Barholm's time. He used to hate most of them.”
“Then why in thunder did he ask them to come?”
“He didn't. They've got clever, polite ways of asking themselves sometimes. He couldn't bear the Countess of Mallowe. She'll come. Grandmother says you may be sure of that.”
“What'll she come for?”
Little Ann's pause and contemplation of him were fraught with thoughtfulness.
“She'll come for you,” at last she said.
“She's got a daughter she thinks ought to have been married eight years ago,” announced Hutchinson.
Tembarom pulled at the bit of brown tweed he held as though it were a drowning man's straw.
“Don't you drive me to drink, Ann,” he said. “I'm frightened. Your grandmother will have to lend ME the dog.”